A Woman Clothed in Words (4 page)

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Although I wrote a good deal during my first years in Canada I made no attempt to publish. In England I had begun to publish in a few little mags – had made a small name for myself – but here I felt that I was another person, had something different to say. Someone – I wish I could remember who it was (I would like to thank him) – introduced me to the Provincial Library in the second year of our life in Saskatchewan. Thanks to that person (whoever he is) I was able to read and encouraged to write in those first few years. When we eventually came to live in Saskatoon, I started to send poems to various literary magazines and began my life as a Canadian poet.

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In the end I think it is the sense of community that I found in Saskatchewan rather than the sense of space and isolation that has most influenced my work. I write mostly about people, their tragedies and loves and quirks. I am happy with the various groups and individuals with whom I have written; whom I have helped; who have helped me. I suppose, that in a place of great spaces and few people, every person is more important than he is in the crowded countries of the Old World.

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I still miss the sea though. Shots of rolling ocean on tv never fail to bring tears of longing to my eyes, but if I were ever exiled from the prairies I should suffer much more than this. For here I am: a prairie person and a prairie poet. During these last years Saskatchewan has become not a place for writers to leave, but a place to live and a place to write, in company with other prairie poets.

(1974)

Untitled

moonmoth

•

you throw yourself

against my window hungering

for the light of my room

•

tonight I am burning four candles

they are a gift from my children

thick wax drips down

coating their dusty painted wreaths

•

I sit and write

by their flames’ light

•

on the outside of the screen

floury dust clings to the mesh

those scales are dust

that nacred your wings

•

at daybreak I think I hear you fall

you must be clinging hollow and light

to the flowering shrubrose

that grows beneath my window

•

I turn the latch

stretch out my head

through the open sash

•

my sons call up to me from the garden

•

they have seen you dead

in a cat’s claws

Untitled (in memory of my father)

this is a cold
city some

weeks away from spring

there is a foot of packed

snow glazing our streets

and gardens rotting ice

burns blue and grey

into the bright air

within the house the day

is held up by wires and

double glass

•

when summer comes

I will lie on the earth and think

of you pulling hollow stems

sweet to the taste

and broad green blades

which, as you would say,

are only fit for whistling

•

indoors

I am stretched on the rug

touching its wiry threads as

one touches a field of grass

and down between nimbi of

harsh fluff I push my fingers

disturbing in the dust

a world of strange creatures

smaller than needle pricks

there they rage mating

and devouring – tearing at each other

in the powdery and glossy dark

•

I tell you there are cities within cities

each one with its closed room

where a giantess, a daughter

of yours, lies weeping and mourning

breasting with her weight

a curious and bloody kingdom

•

but Father, in that other country

where there are no great bears

or wolves, I know myself as

an innocent fox sporting with cubs

in a meadow of weed flowers

and shaded by the wide and leafing tree

that certainly grew from your sinews

from the strong roots of your hair

Another Poem About My Father

last year I had this recurring dream

I dreamt it seven times

•

then my father died

•

in the dream I had a phone call

from the CPR express office

to please come down and pick

up a package I don’t know

what the hurry was when

I arrived I had to stand

on the platform waiting for the train

for what seemed hours

at last it slowly drew into Saskatoon

the square baggage car opened

and there was the freight – my father

asleep in his old plush chair

•

his thatch of hair

tousled like badly bundled reeds

he puffed and grunted a little

in his sleep, he wore

his frayed tweed jacket

its lapels

snowed with the usual cigar ash

•

I could not speak

put out my hand

to brush away the whitish flakes

and burned my finger

on a glowing spark

~~~

when I was seven I asked him

whether the living

could send letters upward

to the dead

“you are thinking of kites”

he said

“bird kites or paper kites?”

I enquired watching a hawk

in the sky, thinking of the

correspondence I had lately started

with my uncle Thomas who

admitted to being “a grand

old man of 43” and who therefore

could not be long for this world

•

my father’s eyes followed mine

to the bird spiralling upwards

in the rainy heavens

Untitled

the year I was twelve

two archeologist friends of
my mother

(how thin and enthusiastic they were)

came with spades and trowels

and dug near the great oak

at the corner of the paddock

where a small spring rose

•

and soon uncovered

beneath the heavy turf

the votive well of a Celtic

goddess called SAINT CWYLL

the dedicatory altar was broken

the well’s water contained:

a child’s skull

three small stone heads

and offerings of coins and shells

•

Father took the skull

and buried it

between the feet of the oak

where the roots twist into the ground

~~~

my brother said:

“in the war Father was a hero”

we were both surprised at that,

thought of him always giving ground

beneath the onslaughts of our mother

a vague but fierce woman

very emphatic in her speech

~~~

and so he begot

child after child

(aunts blamed him for this

as though our mother

had nothing to do with it)

and he grew poorer burdened

with our education

and the upkeep of the old house

beside the river Ain

•

but we did not notice

foraged for flowers

and berries in the coppice

and were always inventing

sea-journeys and pilgrimages

from which we returned tired and holy

carrying the little ones on our shoulders

~~~

and later he was happy

sitting back and watching

his seed carried over the water

People of the Bog

Back there the days are darker

and the nights are longer

in the Old Country where the North

won’t freeze you

but your bones are aches

and numb hands drop things

on the chill tiled floor

•

and I remember once lighting

the last lantern-candle

we walked round the neighbours’

begging a basket of coal or twigs

but every house was cold and

blank as ours

~~~

Just last month Mam wrote me

“look son, they are pulling

the ancestors up from the bog”

•

well, I knew then I’d have

to go over and see it done right

•

As I stood by and watched

a leathery grandfather

was brought up out of the peat

the third that day

they lay

in a row on the stiff heather

•

they in their tattered skin

and thongs, shackled by rings

to their rusted broken dirks

•

“Rubbish” said Rob with

the horses did the pulling

and he unhitched Dolly and Ramon

a pair of pretty greys

“the chain’s heavy” he said

“this is the end of the day”

•

and, you know, he’d expected

some treasure like torcs or

gold bangles

or brooches with dark carnelians

•

or a great beaten-silver drowning bowl

Kahan

Eyes are likened to sea

but yours are gemstones

are blue zircons......are not

sapphire......are not turquoise

are lapis

are aquamarine

•

Inwardly looking on vineyards

on olive groves hands

that might plant grapes

that might gather fruit

in an orange grove turn

the mimeographed pages

of a history of your people

in this prairie place

•

“over there is the farm

I wish I could show you

the house where I was born

it was built of logs

it had three rooms

•

the school was named
Tiferes Israel”

•

Kahan

•

you are in love with the fields

with the bluffs of poplar

your hands

your father’s hands

cleared all that bush

broke all that prairie

under the hard plow

you turn your gaze downwards

as we pass the place

that used to be your farm

your farmer’s hands tremble

on the pages of the book

•

later you stand at the gate of the small cemetery

explain “I am of the house of the high priest

may not walk in the acre of the dead

my feet may not touch those places where

my people are seeded in the prairie

rich wheat in the prairie grass”

•

eyes are likened to lakewater

to distance to air to sky