A Christian story-teller, poet, and thinker writing from Ottawa, Ontario.

Tag: Poetry

  • Poetry is Artificial Intelligence

    Poetry is Artificial Intelligence

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  • William Cowper – The Castaway

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  • צרור

    צרור

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  • Father

    Father

    A special piece for Father’s Day, written a week ago as a tribute to my dad, whose latest labour of love demonstrates clearly what can only be described as a lifelong instinct of faith, as James says: “I will show you my faith by my works.”

    Let me say what service is:
    Along the roads that carve these seven hills
    (Fair Peterborough, city of drumlins
    And lost souls wandering like the Otonabee)
    Generosity passed with an unheaving heart.
    Mind, turret-like, swivelled left and right in search
    Of the ragged people tucked away in the verge,
    The outer margins, the thresholds and edges
    Of humanity, where much more kindness must rise
    Within us to meet the lowly and downtrodden.
    I saw him descend and ascend with meagre gifts,
    But such humble cloth, when it goes down so far,
    Needs must rise golden treasure of thankfulness,
    Though it be hardly possible for these lost ones,
    These precious ones, these hidden ones to speak it
    In the open air.  Whispered then tent to tent,
    And looked for expectant through the fly sheet
    With the morning’s hangover heavy as rain
    Still clouding all their better, inner light.
    Here comes the bus – and what a thing to see cresting
    An old east-city lane, unlooked for but sought,
    As all true fathers are, when we crave gracious strength
    In the bleak hours of our weakness.

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, Collected Poems) 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.

  • Sir Thomas Wyatt – Psalm 143

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  • Windfall

    Windfall

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  • How To Tell a Story

    How To Tell a Story

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  • W. B. Yeats – The Mother of God

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  • Youthful Porpoise

    Youthful Porpoise

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  • Shall We Close Up?

    Shall We Close Up?

    In the night the empty halls,
    Encased by grief and stifling walls,
    House the husks of mortal hope,
    Slumping bodies, fraying rope.

    In a room an open heart
    Beats a weak and paltry pulse.
    Doctors, frantic, slowly scrape
    Calcified and concrete crust.

    Sitting down or standing up,
    Husband, gutted, holds a cup,
    Paces in the quiet room,
    Sweats against the coming doom.

    Past the time for closing hours,
    Anesthetic wearing thin,
    Each try wrung of all its powers,
    “Shall we close up, let it win?”

    Fields of the sun, gouged and grim,
    Lay quivering with chaotic vim.
    Here Celestial host battered,
    Countless Angels’ glory shattered.

    In the garden the serpent slid
    False dreams into mortal minds,
    Miscarried truth before ‘twas free,
    Broke the golden crown of life.

    Waves of murder, streams of blood,
    Conjure morbid, raging flood.
    Swelling up with mortal pleasure,
    Pain and sorrow without measure.

    Skyward in the brilliant dawn,
    Man builds for himself a name.
    Tower vaulted high by brawn,
    “Shall we close up, disperse their fame?”

    The surgeon shuffles through a door,
    Scans the sorrow of the floor,
    Finds the spouse with reddest eye,
    Utters softly, “she may yet die.”

    Some miracles are bound by grief,
    Wrapped, as diamond, with base stone,
    Lift us up to bring us low,
    Taunt with tendrils of sweet breath.

    Nothing left but time and night,
    Clutching hand and drinking fright,
    Emotions dancing like a jig,
    Visions of a hole to dig.