Thanks Tina,
I have now signed and hope the petition achieves its purpose. I was
always so glad I did get to meet Lawrence in person as well as on
line.
Best,Jill
___________________________________________Jill Jones
Latest books:A History Of What I'll Become,
UWAP.https://uwap.uwa.edu.au/collections/poetry/products/a-history-of-what-ill-become
Viva the Real, UQP.Shortlisted for 2019 Prime Minister's Literary
Awards and 2020 John Bray Poetry Award
https://www.uqp.uq.edu.au/Book.aspx/1473/Viva%20the%20Real
Jill on Twitter
https://twitter.com/_jill_jones
I acknowledge the Kaurna people, traditional custodians and songmakers
of the land on which I live. Sovereignty was never ceded.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Poetryetc: poetry and poetics"
To:
Cc:
Sent:Fri, 28 Feb 2020 23:15:31 +0000
Subject:Re: Vancouver Lights
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.
Please sign if you are so inclined
t
https://t.co/IaH75uy0fk?amp=1
Sent from my iPad
On 28 Feb 2020, at 23:02, Douglas Barbour wrote:
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:
Vancouver Lights
Earle Birney
From: Fall by Fury. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1977. With
permission of the Estate of Earle Birney.
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
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
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
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:
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
1941
Douglas Barbour
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Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations &
Continuations 2 (UofAPress).
Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
Listen. If (UofAPress):
Done in by creation itself.
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?
Robert Kroetsch
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