Thanks Tina -sad -I have signed
On 28/02/2020 23:15, Tina Bass wrote:
> Apologies for interrupting as I have not been here for a long time. For those that have not heard, Lawrence Upton is dead. I have not got the energy to provide details but if you have energy there is a petition in place to preserve his works.
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> Please sign if you are so inclined
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> t
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> https://t.co/IaH75uy0fk?amp=1
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> Sent from my iPad
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> On 28 Feb 2020, at 23:02, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
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> I’m thinking I’ll try to send a poem by an older poet out each week. This is by Canadian poet, Earle irony, originally written in 1941, then changed typographically for a 1977 volume of his poems, It seems even more relevant today:
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> Vancouver Lights
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> Earle Birney
> From: Fall by Fury. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1977. With permission of the Estate of Earle Birney.
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> About me the night moonless wimples the mountains
> wraps ocean land air and mounting
> sucks at the stars The city throbbing below
> webs the sable peninsula The golden
> strands overleap the seajet by bridge and buoy
> vault the shears of the inlet climb the woods
> toward me falter and halt Across to the firefly
> haze of a ship on the gulps erased horizon
> roll the lambent spokes of a lighthouse
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> Through the feckless years we have come to the time
> when to look on this quilt of lamps is a troubling delight
> Welling from Europe's bog through Africa flowing
> and Asia drowning the lonely lumes on the oceans
> tiding up over Halifax now to this winking
> outpost comes flooding the primal ink
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> On this mountain's brutish forehead with terror of space
> I stir of the changeless night and the stark ranges
> of nothing pulsing down from beyond and between
> the fragile planets We are a spark beleaguered
> by darkness this twinkle we make in a corner of emptiness
> how shall we utter our fear that the black Experimentress
> will never in the range of her microscope find it? Our Phoebus
> himself is a bubble that dries on Her slide while the Nubian
> wears for an evening's whim a necklace of nebulae
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> Yet we must speak we the unique glowworms
> Out of the waters and rocks of our little world
> we conjured these flames hooped these sparks
> by our will From blankness and cold we fashioned stars
> to our size and signalled Aldebaran
> This must we say whoever may be to hear us
> if murk devour and none weave again in gossamer:
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> These rays were ours
> we made and unmade them Not the shudder of continents
> doused us the moon's passion nor crash of comets
> In the fathomless heat of our dwarfdom our dream's combustion
> we contrived the power the blast that snuffed us
> No one bound Prometheus Himself he chained
> and consumed his own bright liver O stranger
> Plutonian descendant or beast in the stretching night--
> there was light
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> 1941
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> Douglas Barbour
> [log in to unmask]
> https://eur04.safelinks.protection.outlook.com/?url=https%3A%2F%2Feclecticruckus.wordpress.com%2F&data=02%7C01%7C%7Cee12ffb9f0284fb070c508d7bca2590a%7C84df9e7fe9f640afb435aaaaaaaaaaaa%7C1%7C0%7C637185277767247096&sdata=dCUc0C9FJshSXbdfrTiMK%2Fj%2BAVhuDA%2FvxQKjP%2FQFMcg%3D&reserved=0
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> Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuations 2 (UofAPress).
> Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
> Listen. If (UofAPress):
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> Done in by creation itself.
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> I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
> The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
> We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming?
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> Robert Kroetsch
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