Blog - Wednesday Poems

Image:  Just Ducky, oil on canvas, 12” x 12”

I’ve been in full fall mode lately, loving this, my favourite season - so today’s Wednesday Poem is another one celebrating autumn.  Autumn Pantoum (from my book Suddenly, So Much; Exile Editions) is yet another one featuring birds. The form I chose for it is a pantoum (see blog # 20, On Hands and Knees, for how this works).  I do love how the refrain lines tumble and cascade through the stanzas, ending the poem where it began, but that first/final line containing so much more at the end.

This poem, like last week’s, also builds on a line borrowed from another poet.  The opening (and closing) line, in italics, is from Elegy 10 in George Bowering’s Kerrisdale Elegies (Talon), which to me still stands out as one of the best Canadian poetry books ever.  And, earlier this week I got an email that makes it even more fitting to post this poem now.

There is a proposal to install the Bowering Collection and Reading Room in Special Collections at the University of British Columbia. Fundraising is underway for this and there is a pretty short turnaround time:  $500,000 needs to be raised by the end of December.  So far they’ve raised @$137,000 in donations and pledges.  All donations will receive a tax receipt issued by UBC. If you have any questions about the pledge or donation process, please do not hesitate to contact Katherine at katherine.kalsbeek@ubc.ca or 604-822-2819. UBC has also set up a designated giving page https://give.ubc.ca/bowering-collection


Autumn Pantoum


Each quick appearance is a farewell —
the leaves blush and wave goodbye;
goodbye, goodbye to green, everything
eventually dies.

The leaves blush and wave goodbye,
even the junco trilling hello
eventually dies
down, rejoicing becomes requiem.

Even the junco trilling 'hello
cold' is a sign of beginning, of winter coming
down.  Rejoicing becomes requiem.
This small bird sings for angels and ghosts.

Cold is a sign of beginning, of winter coming
with white ideas of ice and snow.
This small bird sings for angels and ghosts
rummaging at dusk under a grove of oaks.

With white ideas of ice and snow,
mallards abandon the lake and rushes
to rummage at dusk under a grove of oaks,
butting their beaks at the leaves.  They mutter.

Mallards abandon the lake and rushes —
I hear them after dark when they should be asleep,
butting their beaks at the leaves.  They mutter
goodbye at last.  Listen,

I hear them after dark when they should be asleep.
Goodbye.  Goodbye to green.  Everything,
goodbye at last.  Listen —
each quick appearance is a farewell.