Our words
are legacy.
Our hopes, fears, and
dreams pirouette on pages
They jeté into hearts and minds
even after we’ve returned
Á terre.
.
.
(In memory of poet Patrick Lane who left us one year ago today. A lesson I learned from him, “Use specificity in your poems. Don’t just dance, tango!”).
I was sad to hear the news that brilliant and prolific Canadian poet, Patrick Lane passed away this morning, just shy of his 80th birthday. I was absolutely blessed to have an opportunity to study with Patrick at the Honeymoon Bay Poetry Retreat in 2017. Such powerful mentorship from a man who had astonishing poetic insight. What a loss to the Canadian literary community.
Just yesterday after spotting the first robin of the year, I was telling a student about my time at the retreat, lying on the ground trying to hear the worms the robin heard.
When Liz McNalley, organizer of the retreat, sent word this morning, she included this poem of Patrick’s and so I will share it with you, as well.
The Beauty
This too, the beauty
Of the antelope in snow
Is it enough to say we will
Imagine this and nothing more?
Who understands that, failing
Falters at the song.
But still we sing.
That is beauty.
But it is not an answer
Any more than the antelope
Most slender of beasts
Most beautiful
Will tell us why they go
Going nowhere
And going there
Perfectly in the snow.
It was a snowy day today. Rest in Peace, Patrick. Much love to Lorna Crozier and all those grieving our nation’s loss today.
PS. If you don’t already have a copy of The Collected Works of Patrick Lane, I highly recommend it. It is full of treasures.
.
(Note that I’m an Amazon Affiliate, so if you buy from that link, I earn a bit for the referral)
The Poetry Retreat is Over
I am the last to leave.
The GPS battery is dead;
I don’t know where to go from here.
From The Collected Poems of Patrick Lane (Harbour Publishing, 2011)
The Bird
The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in your hands
and learn to fly.
.
Listen again.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.
.
Only words
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks of the end of cages.
.
I’m attending a poetry retreat with Patrick Lane this summer, so I’ve been reading his work. I’m looking forward to the opportunity to study with him!
Shawn L. Bird 