What love could render It has done As on a flaming skillet Fat doth run Infusing broth or meat With flavour sweet To serve the tongue
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
When I was sixteen, my brother fell down a disused well, Gone before my eyes without a shout, as dust and chaff plumed In the afternoon sun, ready to rise just as he set. I ran as much by fear of what my father would extract For my neglect as by concern for my brother, collapsed In the wilderness, hours from homeward field or sober help. What drink had done since my mother passed, had done to all; All shared its sharp relief; all shared its languid pressure: For him, to daze the day; for us, to pause on the road home. I cast into the well his name – light-in-darkness snuffed out – But for tumbling stones and loose gravel, it rendered back silence. “Lucas! Lucas! Lucas!” I sent down the name; it echoed Back the same with no suggestion that its owner heeded. I hesitated as I had done some years ago at night, When wolves caught my brother’s leg beyond our fevered camp light, Dislatched at last not by my frantic pleas but wild charge And rage of my father, hairy arms and bludgeoning hands Applying blow upon drunken blow – tears and blows flowing Together and mingling with heated fur and snarl and teeth. Beyond that day he limped his life, wary of wolf and kin, And we two were tethered between beast at home or abroad, Coiled at the margin of our lives, taut with attention. I ran. The land between well and farmhouse tendered no grace; Earth tugged at boot and knee, stretched my hot lungs with hotter miles. Sunk on the porch, ire neatly corked and cradled, my father Roused with disdain. “What?” Poised to repeat, he saw my broken face. Words sheared off at their harsh exit from a frowning mouth, As hammer-tapped casings cleave and leave with rifle blast. “Where?” he fired, and stunned I stood, astonished and afraid. “An old well in the back forty. Dad, he fell; he fell hard.” “Get the truck,” he growled and rounded the house to the barn. I circled to it as he hauled hempen rope, dark with age, And I saw years shed away and him at sea grasping tight Lowering lines for ammo boxes while Guadalcanal Burned – day and night lowering while shellfire lit hot the sky. To the far fields; then on foot, my hands empty and him surging To the spot and not a word between us but all was said. He knew the well. He dug it. I could hear it as he called For his fallen son, in the low way men weep as they shout: Guilt pouring out like interlocking machine-gun fire. Then in went the rope, and he turned sharp to me and I swear My father had never pleaded for anything before And all his pleading I received in one fatal, panicked glance, As though mates locked forever beneath Ironbottom Sound Might be pulled up if only we had courage to descend. I took my grip and closed my eyes and felt the cloistered air, Down, down with the musty rope and musty well and fieldstone barbed Until I felt, slumped in frigid water, my brother’s body, Wedged by some miracle against the rotten boards that fell. “He’s alive!” I roared up the shaft, and back came, “Hold my lad! If ever you loved your father, hold. If ever you loved Your brother and sweet mother, tie the rope and hold fast!” My arms shook with cold and my hands fumbled in the dark As I wrapped the frail boy’s limbs around my own, face to face. “Hold, lad – hold fast and I won’t let you go, but hold I say!” So I held, and as we rose from that wat’ry grave, I heard Steady as the rising, my father’s voice call out apace: “Hold sweet child. Hold. Forgive me lads and hold. Hold fast my boys.”
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
She led my storms beyond the door While I sat broken by the news. Rising from the tear-stained floor, She led my storms beyond the door, As neighbours mused at all she bore And tracked through snow her every bruise; She led my storms beyond the door, While I sat broken by the news.
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
O rain, weep not, it is thy wedding day. For thee skies wait, as guests in bright aisles Turn back brighter faces and rise attentive, Choraline music consecrating a shared witness. It is true, thy procession is a descent, But all water is destined so; young maidens With broken hearts pour rivers forth and mend. Besides, ye wear winter’s pureness; Warm aspéct will acclimatize at altar, Alter from voluble will to firm resolve, As Ontarian streets receive December showers And transmute the wondrous stuff to joyous ice.
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
I sought, O Lord, your servant Peace, Whom I expected soon at manger-side, But when I drew near that hallowed trough, The owner said that Peace had long since fed. So, I retired to cold lake-front, where you Were said to roam, but storms pursued me As I sailed and capsized my poor raft. Then in the distance, you Lord I spied, Walking with Peace upon the angry waves, And though I cried out for your hand, you took Another’s, joined his ship, and the squall dispelled. Hard to shore, I followed your bright shadow To a garden late at night, but Peace had gone. In shame I turned from your now crimson tears To search the town for her whom I had missed. At morn I saw her weeping by a tree, And hasted to inquire her sudden grief, But darkness hid my path, and when it fled, So too had Peace departed from that place. I wandered full of sorrow and despair Up through the rocky cliffs and countryside Believing my pursuit to be in vain; Then on a stony door I chanced to knock, Forsaking thus my search to rest my bones, And who should roll it back and greet me guest But Peace herself in shining linens dressed!
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
The boy was poor, to be sure, but as he felt Poverty an unstipulating state, And as he felt no shackles ‘pon his poor legs, Nor felt it did him a turn to act poor, And as he cherished some close acquaintance With the poorly done by and poorly kept, Nor wished in future to be free from these, And as he felt his poor stomach, knowing Not the riches withheld by his poor tongue, Could with no good conscience plead its poverty, Nor would the poor boy hear those poor grumblings, Or if he did hear them, would hear not grumble, But poor thankfulness for a previous meal Fondly and lovingly remembered, And as he felt his poor arms thick enough To lift and thin enough to squeeze through slats, Nor felt an arm might lift his poverty If it were thicker, since weighing more, More heavily would impoverish, And as he felt the poor crumbs of wealth fell Well within arm’s reach, so that he strained Only a little to fetch them to his lips, Nor wished to snatch up so much fallen wealth That other, poorer snatchers should so strain Their underprivileged arms as break them full, And as he felt his heart, unlike his pockets, Already filled to brimming, as half-way Houses and work houses and orphan houses Brimmed to the rafters with unshining souls, The poor boy curbed his expectation, Knew at that bleak house she offered enough.
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
Joy conquered? No. She is not vincible. Crush her as fruit-in-fist clenched: juice pours out. Pin her to a shame-wrought tree: forests rise To bear the glory, adorned with festive light. Death and Sorrow met in the fouling place And schemed how best to catch Joy on her way. “Suppose we trick and trap her in a tomb?” And so they sought, inviting Joy to dwell First in a womb, but she found it spacious And hospitable. Then Sorrow fixed a trough As Joy’s first bed to make a meal of her, But Joy laughed and shared herself with all As bread and wine transposed from hand to hand. Then Death, impatient, led Joy to his house And sealed the stony door. A gracious guest, Joy tasted full the meal and company, But as the hour grew late, politely bid Her host “good morn” and lightly turned the key, Greeting the gardener with a brighter smile, Since Dawn was rising mirthful in the east.
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
I am excited to announce the official launch of the Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice Audio Book!
Buy it today on the website or find it on a wide variety of Audio Book publishers, including Google, Audible, Libro.FM, Downpour, Kobo, Apple, and Spotify.
I’m currently recording audio for additional titles to add to the Audio Book catalogue, with the next release scheduled for January 2026. Stay tuned for more!
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
