DONNA BAMFORD
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ABSINTHE
Yes, give me absinthe,
and I will beguile the hours
in a bistro
with Beaudelaire, and Rimbaud,
Georges Sands, and Mallarme,
dine on politics and poetics
Galloises and Piaf
Oh I would be an absinthe drinker
and besotted, court the wanton muse
in Paris, where the muse is meandering nightly
by the light of a gibbous moon
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THE LAMENT OF THE TORONTONIAN IN EXILE
Long time now have I languished
in Southwestern Ontario
far away from the AGO
from Bloor and Avenue Road
from the Danforth
from the Eaton Centre
Once I walked through the streets
of the Annex
unawares that this was my spiritual home
the streetcars,
the squirrels cavorting in Queen´s Park,
the university,
the quad at UC,
the clock tower of Hart House,
Philosopher´s Walk,
I saw them not
I pined for London, Paris , Rome
But now I am banished
to a provincial backwater
to end all backwaters
a fitting fate
for one
who never knows what he has
till it´s gone.
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IMAGES OF IRELAND
donkey carts,
the men´s faces
hewn out of wood and granite
streams, rocky and northern
free and vivacious
thatched cottages
rose-bestrewn
shop fronts and doors
charming and witty
children, bonnie and mildewed
nuns in pubs
dogs in pubs,
Yeat´s tower, by a lyrical stream,
we arose and went to Innisfree
and there a lake of shining waters saw
Bewley´s cafe in Dublin
where the sun pours in
through stained glass windows
like Irish whiskey
Belfast,
a parade of Orangemen
we stop to ask directions,
“Don´t you wish you had a gun?”
2
the youth asks.
The Lakes of Killarney
reminiscent of Muskoka,
Donegal, where I have my roots,
Correvaddy Manor,
my ancestral home,
now in ruins,
fuschia hedges
line the roadways,
and a language
as sweet to the ear
as the soul-song of the sea
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IN A JUNE GARDEN
1
In my garden now,
irises and lupines.
pastel -salmon and rose,
lemon lilies,
tangerine poppies,
pansy and viola.
I like especially
the delicate, voluptuous iris,
and the coquettish lupines.
I shall plant sweet peas tomorrow,
and soon my hollyhock will bloom.
We await the roses,
late this year,
The spirit of the iris
is like a ballerina
perfectly poised,
and disciplined,
ephemeral beauty
ethereal, translucent
My soul resonates
with the souls
of these flowers
Is there any greater argument
!
;
2 for a God
than an iris in full bloom?
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WINTER MOON
Cyclops-eyed the sky.
Harvest moon of snow,
snow- scaped and sculpted
in reflecting waves
the moon ablaze with sorrow
the color of tea
hazy withal like tea,
and yet huge, telephoto,
like August moon
so close you could hear a sigh
warm in it´s presence
and eloquent
like a broken heart
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Impressions of Hellevuitschluss
!
;
an outdoor cafe
in the old town
black magpies alight
on the emptied tables,
ominously
Robust babies in lace bonnets
cyclists with dogs in their baskets
behind and in front
old people on bicycles
bicycles with babies on the back
everywhere bicycles
Sailboats moored in the harbour
halyards
tinkling in the breeze
like cowbells.
A windmill across the channel
a market across the bridge
vegetables, cheeses and flowers
My home, my father´s boat,
the Foudroyant
now cradled on land
I write at my cafe
while my father does repairs
2 Our crew arrive,
a teacher and her daughter
Oh blackbirds, blackbirds,
My brown-eyed Susan has died
How is it possible?
Only the other day we talked.
Oh blackbirds, blackbirds
fly away blackbirds
one of the rarest flowers
in my garden
friend of my youth
Oh blackbirds, blackbirds
fly away home
Bring me back,
My brown-eyed Susan
She was one of my most radiant jewels
I treasured her friendship
it nurtured me
in dark hours
Oh blackbirds, black birds
where is my brown-eyed Susan?
my treasure, my friend.
The cyclists come and go
the masts tinkle
the sails of the windmill turn
Impressions of Hellevuitschluss