Tagged: new poem
A new poem…
You & I
we navigate a
landscape of thorns
you & I
knowing full well
no matter how lightly we tread
the sharpness will find us
almost as if it were seeking
our pliant flesh
so eager to inflict hurt
for the sheer pleasure
of watching us squirm
* * * *
I wrote this piece as a response against the kind of world we presently live in, where a small minority seek to limit the terms of discourse, control language and dole out heaping portions of shame and abuse (while claiming to defend some kind of moral high ground).
Their demeanor and attitude have poisoned conversations, cut off debate and reduced us to a population that is divided, paranoid and desperately afraid of causing offense.
“All silencing of discussion is an assumption of infallibility.” (Norman Finkelstein).
You said it, Norm.
Memory poem: for Clara
Thrift
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

Remember…a poem for the nostalgic at heart
Poem of the day
September 19, 2020
I begged you to linger
because you kept the chills at bay
but you insisted you had
business elsewhere
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
Timely poem
Definition #13
“pandemic”
a virulent acknowledgement
of our species’ intrinsic desire
to destroy ourselves before
vaunting ambition compels
the stars to surrender their secrets
the technologies of Creation
We know we would make terrible gods
too enthralled with our own image
oblivious so we don’t have to care
Automatic writing
Yesterday, after spending most of the afternoon cleaning and re-arranging our garage (onerous task), I settled myself on the back deck with a glass of scotch, a small cigar, my notebook and a volume of The Collected Poems of Zbigniew Herbert.
Herbert was a Polish writer who, despite growing up in an authoritarian environment, managed to compose magnificent, soul-rending verse.
As I was reading poems like “Mama” and “Chord”, I couldn’t help trying to imagine what it wold be like to live as an artist in a society where personal and aesthetic freedoms are strictly curtailed, the regime relentless in its pursuit of any kind of opposition, the smallest display of rebellion.
Censor
It was someone’s job to
scrutinize every syllable,
search each metaphor
and allusion for
significance, a deeper
meaning that might
subvert the apparatus,
throw a monkey
wrench into the works,
or cast the slightest
aspersion against the
omnipotence of the
ruling elite.
…but artists like Herbert and Vasily Grossman and Andrei Tarkovsky managed, somehow, to frustrate their ideological masters, producing works of lasting genius. What was it that made them so strong, so immune to the powers of the state, when so many of their colleagues caved in to pressure, conformed, compromised their visions? Was it some form of faith? Pride? Strength of will?
My God, the courage it would take to stand your ground, refuse to dilute or skew your art. Would I be that strong under similar circumstances? Could I resist the blandishments and threats? Choose exile and disgrace over safety and security?
Which somehow led me around to:
Punch Line
I cannot see the
radiance of
ordinary things.
My faith is
not so simple,
so profound.
I ask for proofs
and the universe
responds with
spasms of hilarity.
God is laughing
but I, stubborn
and unmoved,
fail to crack
a smile.
© 2017 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)
New poem
A few days ago I was sitting in my favourite pub in Saskatoon, having a pint of Guinness (and to hell with the Celiac nonsense), with a chaser of Tallisker, occasionally glancing outside at passersby—
—and then suddenly I was scrabbling for my notebook as the following came to me:
See World
window people
framed for a moment
like aquarium fish
exotically drifting
New poem
New Poem
Faust
no deal:
your terms
too strict
your demands
too steep
the return
too small
my soul
too precious
© Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)