When you hear them say, Albertos the Great has died, Believe only half their tall tale, for they have lied: Great was my sin, and greater yet the work to mend My smallness. Yet that labour, fault by fault, my friend Some years ago with pains and anguish undertook And carved at last my name with crimson in his book, Which I, from time to time, read with thanksgiving Since the pages do not hold the dead, but living.
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.
Let May flower though it turns our hearts Toward th’incessant earth In search of beauty In search of striving Because we too are striving Though we don’t see Though we pretend not to see The ground with worms writhing A thousand May-born flies The ruminations of dappled coastland moors Above all the striving whispers of unharnessed wind In search and never finding home But on through dry and moist air rising Since it cannot tire It tangles hickory Ruffs crested feathers and bill While at marsh-end Swallow trill Enthroned on swaying bulrush
Let it flower and rest your joy In the unhurried earth Long years waiting for a reckoning As mastering man sews curse on curse Sweat and breath sewn and raised together Because we too are striving Because even in the garden When the earth had not yet learned to strive Since we had not yet plucked And scarred the tree Because it recoiled at our touch Though we were not as such filled with violence In search of immortality But since the waiting and the striving go on Palaverating creeks run their mouths And run to their mouths And spread over the earth the poison of man Because man’s searching leaves no thing untouched Despite which the soil endures
Let it flower despite these Because another striving Summons place to place And time to time Time striving for place And place searching for its time The divine search for resurrection That purer striving for home Because He too is striving Let May flower since it turns His heart Toward the restless earth
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 following is a sneak peek at Chapter 1 of Snips and Snails, sequel to my fairy story, Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice.
The King’s Decree
Above the blooming sky and wide firmament, where thin-bound air runs free and joyful; above the celestial trails, where giants wander, greeting one another as strangers on an afternoon walk pass by with a singular nod; above even the congregations and cities of such massive beings, who attend to our skirted plains and ragged mountains as heavy-booted lumberjacks attend to their carpet and foot stools; above all these rose a great city, and at its centre a royal palace. Akoron the Mighty, whose eternal reign proceeded unblemished in the hearts of all his subjects, ruled with power colossal, unflinching wisdom, and stalwart joy. The Unrelenting. The Magnanimous. The Hunter. These titles and more had he accrued, and his court was filled with such as he. Akoron mounted his throne early in the week, and all eyes were upon him when he pronounced his royal decree:
“The Grey Stag has been sighted once again upon the Heath, far into the hinterlands. Send word to all Giant Land: The Great Hunt has begun once more! Let all hunters present themselves to the royal Master of the Lists to be registered. We will feast this week-long in the Great Hall and then I shall array my chariot in splendour and lead the hunt. Let it be decreed.”
“It is so!” came the reply, a chant from every voice in the court acknowledging and sealing Akoron’s word in keeping with ancient custom. The crowd erupted in cheers and Akoron raised his great fist and roared with a mighty roar, laughing and rejoicing in his might. For he had waited many seasons for a fresh sighting of the Grey Stag, and longed for the hunt as roots long for rain.
Day after day, the giants feasted in the Great Hall, planning their course and journey, sharpening their spears and trading stories of hunts long past. While they feasted, the jester Buttermilk sang and extolled in brilliant tales the exploits of the king. And as Buttermilk performed, the son of Akoron, Prince Snails, looked on and laughed with a fervent gaze fixed on the silver-tongued fool, whose garb shone with brilliant gems, gaudy colours and flowing cloth.
Now the Prince was one for mischief, having grown up free to roam. Despite his mother’s discipline and father’s love, which were rendered fully to the boy (he being neither codded nor hard done by, but justly weighed and granted every opportunity to display honour), Prince Snails from time to time would lose himself and act with rashness. In this nearest season of his life, his father had warned him not to scorn their entreatments, lest he be held back from the Great Hunt. For a time, this warning held fast in the heart of the young Prince, for he had not as yet partaken in the hunt, save in his imagination as he heard the bards sing in the great halls. But the feast, with all its excitement, proved too much for Snails, who hatched a plot to cause Buttermilk to tumble down and bring the whole house into riotous laughter just as he delivered the highest of the tales of Wintertide on the eve of the Great Hunt. And so it was that Snails sat, goblet in hand, eyes fixed on the low dais erected in the great Hall, while Buttermilk, in full festive costume, round as a world to the eyes of mortals (were we perched there in the glittering chandelier which lit the auburn walls), stepped up to the dais and laid one hand on the low railing. It creaked gently and Snails covered his mouth with his hand to choke back a squeal of delight. Buttermilk left off the railing and raised both hands alongside his face in earnest attention toward the ceiling, then began in low tones to lay the ground of his tale:
“When the abyss breathed forth the blackened mire And kingly grace had yet to clothe our lord, The Stag with antlers grey took to the spire And bent its will upon the rushing fjord.”
Buttermilk lowered his arms and let them rest gently on the rail, and Snails leaned in, ready for his moment. Squeezing the railing while pivoting sharply to his right, Buttermilk flung out his left arm to the crowd in a powerful gesture. With all of his weight pressed upon the railing for a brief moment, the sable wood, which Snails in secret had cut near the base, gave way, and with a hilarious yelp, Buttermilk tumbled off the dais on to a table filled with food and drink. The audience, save one, was stunned and a gasp cascaded through the crowd. Snails could not contain himself, but laughed full and loud, tears pouring down his face. He clutched his side and pounded his fist on the table. Buttermilk was lifted up by those nearby and helped back to his position; someone passed a glass of wine up to him to steady himself, and he drank a strong swig before wiping his mouth and looking around at the crowd. Then, to absorb their anxiety, he winked and stretched a broad smile across his face. The crowd roared out at his courage and many voices called out for the Fool to go on and tell his tale. Through all of this, King Akoron saw his son, though the Prince saw not that he was seen. But being King, Akoron bided his time, and when the festivities for the day had concluded, he ascended to his son’s room in the evening, sat quietly on the edge of his bed, and said in a gentle voice:
“You cannot come to the Hunt, my son.” And when the shocked Snails, face contorting in disbelief, raised his voice to protest, his father merely rose in silence and left the room.
“Father, oh father, please!” cried the bitter prince as Akoron walked down the hall. He moved as a tiger at ease, nor turned his head to heed his wayward child, but passed through a door to the royal chambers. The next morning, a missive came and lay on the end of Snails’ bed, detailing the royal decree, that he must stay and that Buttermilk the Fool was to be his guardian. Snails wept at the this more than the confinement, for in his own way he loved the Jester and his stories, and believed, when he saw the unsmiling face which greeted him that some rift had formed, and he did not possess the tact (or in truth, the strength of will) to repent. So it is for the young, who cannot face their shame. Is it not the same for young and old alike, when pain has sealed the doors to the heart? How then can we make amends?
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.
“Don’t bother with friends,” Always struck me as poor advice, Which is why no one in their right mind Ever gives it as such, instead reserving Such sentiments for hard times, When the peel of mortality Is pulled back from our frail lives And for a moment we do not wish To see what the loss has meant, But only wish to feel the loss itself. Here is a remedy: make more than you can Keep. And keep in mind their mind, So that, days or years apart, you may Produce the fruit of friendship in a thought, Its candor and cadence, the head-back laugh And twinkle, or the wrought wisdom welding Truth to practice at an odd angle, Which only your one, obscure, entangled Friend could manage and no other.
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.
And now the rain comes. We saw grey clouds swiftly charge, Felt as kindred spirits do At leave-taking, When eye follows eye And each lets fall stored sorrows; When Spring melt shocks Unexpecting rivers, Now burdened with too much water, And the crested banks o’erflow.
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.
What shall we give to the Ocean When it calls out: “I thirst”? Who can slake parched waters? Is your bucket big enough? And at what stream will you supply Living water to satisfy His need?
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.
Upon the broad and steadfast plain A quarrel gripped the gathered winds, Who boasted only they could beat And break the proud and silent ground.
So, each contrived to make it howl And tore the land with awful whips, Scattering fearful sheep and goats, Savaging leaf and stalk and grain.
Blow followed blow, terse as the rain That aimless strikes both head and heel. At last, the trembling ground gave way And groaned a long and loud complaint.
“Who struck you, land, and stirred your voice?” The plain gave no reply, so they With mockery sewed briar seeds In hope the ground would harvest pain.
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.
Golgotha, to me, was prime real-estate For advertisers. The highway, state-of-the-art local stone Laid by Romans, Was broad, and all found it Easy to traverse. But they squandered their chance And stumbled, Adorning the rock with crosses, Row on row, Where billboards could have been. Think of the losses! Think of the indignity Done to the community As we erected stalls and stands In the looming shadow Of those gasping criminals. Tis a bad business.
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 mother of Barrabas wept When her prodigal returned. “My son, my only son,” she cried, And he, with sidelong look and brow Downcast at her unravelled state, Felt only shame to be called so. Thus Joy and Sorrow, by one door, Received whom all had cast aside, Save him, who being a faithful Son, set free, with chains, the faithless And robbed Death of his victory.
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.
Todd Edward Anderson 