Clifton Hill, 1977 Photo by Ron Mottola Ripley’s Museum on the left Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Niagara Falls is a long poem of 700 lines where three stories, growing up Catholic in the industrial North, a honeymoon to Niagara Falls and a pilgrimage to Assissi, Italy, are interwoven in a master work of fractured narration. The language is relaxed and upbeat where metaphysical concerns meet, head on.
Excerpt from Niagara Falls (p. 8-9):
25 years ago, here,
on a rainy camping trip
my father splurged on
Ripley’s Believe It
Or Not Museum where I stared
at the shrunken head.
I bought a postcard: The Hair continues to grow. I still have it: long beaded threads
hang from the nose like a rosary.
Source: Jim Daniels. Niagara Falls. Easthampton, MA: Adastra Press, 1994
George Ellis, Wife and Girl at Dufferin Islands, Niagara Falls, 1890 Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Last Thursday night with the weather mild,
A party proposed a sleigh-ride wild,
So they all piled into a two-horse sleigh
And sped to the country miles away.
To say where they went I think’s no harm,
For they landed at the Robertson farm ;
We think their number was forty-five.
Were they noisy ? Well, they were much alive.
Now they took Dr. Wallis, he’s quite a nob,
And always on hand for a tying job.
He went just to help the youngsters through—
A helper good where there’s work to do.
The telephone’s handy, bet your life,
So Wallis telephones to his wife :
“We got here safe, twenty minutes to stay,
And then we take our homeward way.”
It was not so, for the whole bunch
Say we don’t leave till we have our lunch.
So coffee, cake and a sandwich too,
Were passed around among the few.
On Fluvius now you can’t depend,
When you want it dry, the rain he’ll send ;
So, to make them mind their homeward trip,
The rain came down with a drip, drip, drip.
[page is cut off at this point]
Source: Probably from The Welland Tribune. Found in the Misener folder of the Mayholme Foundation
Melvin Byron Misener of Crowland (May 18, 1847 – May 28, 1936), was known by many readers of the Welland Tribune as “the Crowland Poet”. His personal writings span the period from 1869 to 1935. Among the daily accounts of social events, weather conditions and farm chores in his diaries there are numerous obituaries for friends, family and others living in Welland County, particularly Crowland, Thorold and Port Robinson.
‘Tis did—my braggin’ days is o’er,
I’ll brag of old SALT* now no more.
The look of pride which once I wore
Is gone, alas! my heart are tore ;
The proud, firm footstep, mine of yore
Are gone now, too, gone ; my eyes is sore,
And little scaldin’ tears does pour,
When I does think that old SALT’S roar,
Was made “considerable” lower,
Even at this very door.
The American Niagara Falls Undated postcard. The Bridal Veil Fall is to the right. Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Greetings from the capital of love,
whose cataracts a punster might foretell.
Next time we come we’ll plan for a motel:
one afternoon is simply not enough.
Where other tourists see the Bridal Veil,
I watch the ghosts of buffalos herded off
a thousand cliffs by hunters. Gulls circle as if
they were white buzzards. They wait to no avail.
Sorry to be cynical, I buy
some souvenirs — small TV sets with slides of all
the sights in living color. The primal
screams are missing. The hunters had their alibi
but what is mine? Can I love a girl
afraid of every honeymoon’s cheap thrills,
like holding hands in public or acting like a fool?
Yours, of course, until Niagara Falls.
Source: Jennifer Rose. Hometime for an Hour: Poems. Athens: Ohio University Press, 2006
American Falls From Goat Island, Niagara, 1908 Courtesy of the Library of Congress
A THOUSAND streams all gather into one ‡‡‡‡And in thy thunders sink :
Four mighty seas to thy dread margin run, ‡‡‡‡And dare thine awful brink .
The shock of cavalry in battle-sweep, ‡‡‡‡The might of war’s impact,
Are whispers, to the thunder o’er the steep ‡‡‡‡Of thy great cataract .
While yet there was no ear to hear thy moan ‡‡‡‡And all the earth was young,
Out on the lonely air thy monotone ‡‡‡‡Its deep vibrations flung .
The sun was painting rainbows on the mist ‡‡‡‡That veiled thy watery crown,
When fierce Cambyses staggered all the East ‡‡‡‡And trampled Egypt down.
Still boomed thy flood in ceaseless cannonade, ‡‡‡‡And seethed in yeasty foam,
When Goth and Vandal in destruction laid ‡‡‡‡The towers of ancient Rome .
Thy torrent breaks the adamantine rock ‡‡‡‡And hurls it from the height ;
The firm-knit earth cannot withstand the shock ‡‡‡‡Of thy propulsive might.
How wild the storm that ever downward sweeps ‡‡‡‡The whirlwind of thy foam,
How still the sky that all thy waters weeps ‡‡‡‡In raindrops from its dome.
Sublime and silent is that mighty force ‡‡‡‡That dwells within those forms
Whose wings of mist soar upward in their course ‡‡‡‡And veil thy breast in storms.
Howe’er resistlessly thy fury sweeps, ‡‡‡‡How vast soe’er thy powers,
In gravitation all thy glory sleeps, ‡‡‡‡Thy substance in the showers.
Source: Dr. D. A. Watson. The Wing of the Wild-Bird and Other Poems. Toronto: William Briggs, 1908
