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Here is a smattering of great poems written by other people:

Robert Hass is one of my favorite living poets. He was the Poet Laureate of the U.S. in the late 90′s, and this collection won a Pulitzer. Not bad.

ROBERT HASS – ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE’S POEMS

In one version of the legend the sirens couldn’t sing.
It was only a sailor’s story that they could.
So Odysseus, lashed to the mast, was harrowed
By a music that he didn’t hear — plungings of the sea,
Wind-sheer, the off-shore hunger of the birds –
And the mute women gathering kelp for garden mulch,
Seeing him strain against the cordage, seeing
the awful longing in his eyes, are changed forever
On their rocky waste of island by their imagination
Of his imagination of the song they didn’t sing.

 Kate Hall was my favorite Canadian contribution to the Griffin nominees in 2010. This poem is great. Plus she’s Canadian!

 KATE HALL – THE LOST-AND-FOUND BOX

We are waiting for the claimants to come. You would like to
keep the purple umbrella. I would like to keep the orange
tree. We’re both hoping no one will claim the blue beat-up
dictionary. The dead won’t give anything away. They care-
fully pick through the big pile of junky objects while we
crouch reverently in front of it. A crowd is fighting over the
morning star and the evening star, but there’s only one star
in the box. It’s stretched thin between them. Fault lines are
emerging. People approach from every possible angle.
Secretly, we’re hoping for disaster – a chaotic free-for-all so
we can make off with as much as our arms can hold. At the
door, George Herbert describes an orange tree to the admis-
sion clerk. As Herbert glances around, I step in front of it and
wave my arms like branches. I feel a little bad because he
wants it for God, and I just want it for myself.

John Glenday was also a 2010 Griffin finalist (international). He lives in Scotland and works as an Addictions Counsellor. Isn’t that great? He’s also been to The Banff Centre. In fact, it was a google search of his name that led me here in the first place. Grain was one of my favorite collections in the last few years. 

JOHN GLENDAY – THE RIVER

This is my formula for the fall of things:
we come to a river we always knew we’d have to cross.
It ferries the twilight down through fieldworks

of corn and half-blown sunflowers.
The only sounds, one lost cicada calling to itself
and the piping of a bird that will never have a name.

Now tell me there is a pause
where we know there should be an end;
then tell me you too imagined it this way

with our shadows never quite touching the river
and the river never quite reaching the sea.

Clair de Lune
Wikipedia says
Clair de Lune is french for
“moonlight.”
It may refer to
the third movement of
Suite bergamasque by
Claude Debussy,
a piano depiction of
a Paul Verlaine poem,
it says.

It is (the poem)
about
your soul
and how it is better when
mixed with
moonlight—¹
²

It is interesting to note
(it says)
“Clair de lune” was originally titled
“Promenade Sentimentale.”
This is also the name
of a Verlaine poem.
It is nice to know that
Debussy liked poetry too.

1. The poem is not exactly about this.
2. Actually, the poem is exactly about this.

“For
small erections may be
finished by their first architects;
grand ones,
true ones,
ever leave the copestone to
posterity. God keep me from ever completing anything.
This
whole
book
is
but
a
draught—nay,
but the draught of a draught.
Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience!”

— Herman Melville (Moby-Dick or, The Whale)

This print is by the exceptionally talented Tom Neely. It is over five feet tall in real life. Ink on paper. He makes comics and paintings. His website is called i will destroy you. Santa, if you are reading this, all I want for Christmas is this. I did try to draw The Whale . . . but this is incredible. You should definitely click that picture.

“In the case “Jens Lekman vs. Jens Lekman”, we will look closer at the evidence presented – the photo I had carried in my breastpocket for a whole year, the pressed honeysuckle, the wind so rich on summer and so sweet – how are these things connected and why are they relevant?”

From Jens’ site. New EP out September 20th!

So, with the Polaris Prize shortlist coming out in 5 days (and 17 hours), I have finally decided on my favourites from the longlist. There were 40 altogether, and I cannot admit to having intimate knowledge of more than 10 of them, but thanks to CBC Radio 3, I have managed to listen to a lot of music from the 40 and have picked some 14 favourites. You may notice there is no Arcade Fire on my list. It’s because I cannot stand their smarmy haircuts. My choice? Destroyer – Kaputt. There’s something about his 80′s-style instruments that I can’t get enough of. Enjoy! Make sure to play the actual playlist, otherwise you’ll just stream CBC Radio 3 (which is really not a bad thing at all). http://bit.ly/mBAJCU

Recently I was given this book by a friend. I had never heard of Robert Kroetsch before, and was working my way towards the book when I found out the author had just passed away in a car crash near Edmonton. And so although I have only read this one book of his (his last) I would say that Alberta has certainly lost a great writer. A favourite from his last collection:

Afterthought 2

A tree is a kind of calendar, our teacher
explained, each ring in the wood a year,
each tree a memory of itself, a history

of the place and time of its growing.
Our teacher said we might bring
a sample to class. I was a good student.

My father’s favourite tree was a Manitoba maple.
It stood at the edge of our garden.
It gave him shade on hot summer days.

What I did was, I cut down my father’s
favourite tree. With a handsaw.
Then I cut off a slice from the fallen trunk.

The rings in the wood were a wonder.
I counted the rings. I went and told my father,
You are the same age as a tree.

My father said, Where did you find that
slice of wood? I was proud of myself.
That tree at the edge of the garden, I said.

I wasn’t lying. He could see the evidence
for himself. If he wanted to. I asked him
to help me check my counting.

A tree is a kind of calendar. I remember
my father, after a moment, managed to smile.
He taught me that love has many seasons.