Tag: poetry

Niagara by Elizabeth Henry

Thund’ring waters!
Plunging downward, age on age in ceaseless might
Free, defiant, still unconquered,
Grand and awe-inspiring sight,
          Terrible Niagara!

Churning waters!
Crashing, rockward, sweeping all within thy path
Killing, crushing, maiming all things
In thy fury and thy wrath,
          Merciless Niagara!

Foaming waters!
Swirling ever, spray and spume flung far and wide,
Rainbow tinted are thy mist veils
Fitting for the fairest bride,
          Beautiful Niagara!

Restless waters!
Ageless symbol of our country, strong and free,
Ever moving, surging onward,
Fearing not what is to be,
          Glorious Niagara!

Source: Niagara Falls Review, October 16, 1967

First Place Winner of the Women’s Centennial Committee Prose and Poetry Contest.

Niagara by Ozan Haksever

ozan haksever

ozan haksever
American Falls from the Canadian Side by ‘Peter’ Courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library

Oh Niagara, watch your waters fall,
To see the angels that your waters call.
Watch the people gather ’round,
And marvel at what they have found.

Oh Niagara, fill the flowing stream,
Your endless beauty like a distant dream.
Don’t hold back your magic rain,
For I love the way it clears my pain.

Oh Niagara, let your soul pour out.
And let the people run about.
They stare at your bridges tall.
As into love the children fall.

Oh Niagara, I remind you of
Two children who shared such a love,
That it lasted all these years,
Through all their joys and tears.

Oh Niagara, what a caring life
Did live this man and wife.
That now they have nothing to do,
Nothing but to visit you.

Oh Niagara, they have come to you,
To sleep inside your waters blue,
Climbing to love had such a spell,
That falling must be great as well.

Oh Niagara, welcome two new angels,
Ring out your diamond bells,
As to the top the lovers crawl,
And into their heaven they fall.

 

Source: The author, July 2003.

©2000 by Ozan Haksever

Niagara by C. E. Whiton-Stone

Portrait of Cara Elizabeth Whiton-Stone
Gift inscription by Cara Elizabeth Whiton-Stone

What wild convulsion in the ages past
Shook thee to such immeasurable unrest,
Oh, mad Niagara?     Did the huge crest
Of some black mountain, splintered by a blast
From Heaven down-bolted, leave these fissures vast
Whence rush thy waters?     Or was ocean pressed
From its storm-beaten shores, to dash thy breast
And hurl out rage from thee, while Time shall last?
          Rage on, imperial mystery, that thou art;
          Chance, in the azoic age, with wonders rife,
          At mandate of the gods, from out earth’s heart,
          In embryo doomed to everlasting strife,
          Thou sprang’st defiant, thundering to thy part,
          Magnificent and terrible, as Life.

Rage on, for giant raging thou may’st show,
Through veins that interlace the land, thy power,
And with thy foaming passion, bring to flower
The genius of man; may’st writhing go
Like a colossal serpent, to and fro,
Winding through ribs of steel that massive tower,
And so imprisoned, strike the zenith hour
When science shall supremest secret know:
          I liken thee to soul wherein is pent
          Divinest madness, that song surging keeps,
          Till by unconquerable forces rent,
          To mighty music it majestic sweeps.
          As the great Odyssey blind Homer sent
          Crashing sublimely down eternal steeps.

Source: Myron T. Pritchard, comp. Poetry of Niagara. Boston: Lothrop Publishing Co., 1901.

Niagara River Table d’Hôte by Elizabeth Glenny

Portrait of Elizabeth Glenny
Elizabeth Glenny

Upriver, it begins to unfold from Erie’s mouth
and before it falls at Table Rock  today

an old woman leans on her rake handle waiting
for her husband’s Greek cap to peak the bank.

A gull combs the river with yellow eye,
swerves, dips, drops and carries off a fingerling

in vice-grip beak, flogs the air with outstretched wings
to rise above the willows, silver scales flashing.

All day on the grassy slope above the pebbled shore
an empty car parks beside a pair of men’s oxblood loafers

size ten, inside the right shoe a  wallet
with driver’s license and a wrist-watch at half-past four

Source: The author, 2004

Niagara Falls 1972 (revised version) by Richard H. Fox


engine squeals, fan belt slaps severing all ties
   the gas pedal becomes a foot rest
in fading twilight two pairs of feet track neon winks
   thunderclaps drown their steps
they sprint through puddles giggling and shivering
   register as man and wife in the motel shack

their cabin has one twin bed
    she hangs wet blouse and jeans - "I'll shower first if that's ok"
he dangles wet t-shirt and cuttoffs next to hers

she emerges wearing a white towel
       drapes it over the headboard
                  raises the patchwork quilt
                              folds back the sheets
                                         arranges the pillows
                                                    slips into bed

he retreats into the bathroom
slides off underwear
lets hot stream douse hair
wraps towel round waist
leans on tub patting forehead cheeks chin...
opens door flips towel on dresser
jumps under covers

she smiles -
         "Are you ok?
                   You look nervous."

        he met her, a college ride board refugee, at breakfast sixteen hours ago;
        her  other sat  opposite pulling on the straps  of a pale  gingham dress,
        long blonde hair unbound,  garden flower  above left ear - "Thank you for
        taking our daughter." - her father  patted his  back, shook hands nodding
        slowly, kissed his child on  the cheek,  opened the car door, turned away

        strangers in bucket seats, she told jokes, sewed a loose button on his shirt,
        made sandwiches on french bread - tomatoes, roasted peppers, fresh cilantro -
        smiled  whenever he  looked,  laughed  nervously  at the New York  state line

she lies on her side, faces the wall, switches off the lamp
he stares at the ceiling, holds breath, hears the current of her sighs break on white pillowcase

he could brush the hair off her shoulder
       trace the shape of her arm
               stroke the course of her spine
                       to her hip
                               across her thigh
                                       drift along belly - her rounded belly

tomorrow feet in cold stirrups

he sleeps on his back, hands on stomach

in the morning, the motel manager asks "How's your wife?"
snaps a shot of the couple, brunette and blonde in greyscale, next to a highway sign
   "Niagara Falls 18 mi"

Source: The author, 2001
Click here to see a previous version of this poem.

Richard H. Fox’s website