The older I get the less I waste remember how Grandma used to save envelopes in a certain drawer to reuse for grocery lists loaf of white bread (not McGavin’s) cream McCormick’s social tea biscuits Tums 7Up From Wylie’s Store downtown where they used to let us buy on credit if our Family Allowance check was late or Dad had been fired again
I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Shauna Powers, host of “Saskatchewan Weekend”.
I usually shy away from interviews but chatting with Shauna about my poetry collection The Definition of Melancholy was like sitting down for coffee with a friend or colleague.
You’ll find the interview in its entirety here–not sure how long it will be up, so enjoy it while you can.
Yours truly will be making an appearance at the Strata Festival of New Music at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon.
Along with visual and performing artists, I’ll be offering my response—through poetry—to the three musical compositions making their debut that evening. I’ve never done anything like this before, so it should make for an entertaining and nerve-wracking evening.
Details below and here’s a link to Strata’s official page.
Copyright, 2021 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)
I love the sounds Nature makes
when she’s happy and none trouble
her serene countenance, vexing
her with their tireless machines
She hums contentedly
tending her bursting flower boxes
attentive to each seed or shoot
showering them with maternal love
She likes to get her hands dirty
except for the blood
which flows so copiously
it inevitably leaves a stain
She would say she’s blameless
as an iris, tender as a fawn
but we know her as a ruthless foe
when her existence is threatened
Leave her to her graces
praise her in word and deed:
the many shades of green she grows
the beauty she won’t concede
Written on my back deck June 2, 2021, while being serenaded by several varieties of bird song.
September 19, 2020
I begged you to linger
because you kept the chills at bay
but you insisted you had
and took leave of me
with an air kiss
that brushed my cheek
with the last warm breath
I’d feel until Easter
paid its ritual visit
on bended pagan knees