Nellie McClung
Saw the Jesus and the Buddha
with her own two blue eyes in Ottawa.
The Buddha was on land,
came through her wall in fact
as she was meditating.
And later the same evening,
she saw Jesus
as she floated on the river
like Ophelia.
The revellers who passed her
on board the pleasure cruiser
must have seen her:
just another piece of smooth white ice
drifting on that winter river.
Nellie's white raincoat
buoyed her up and saved her life.
If she'd been wearing black,
those river fishermen
who took the name of Christ in vain &
saved her life
would've never seen her.
After seeing Buddha, she says,
she didn't think
that she could sink.
She's the only one
I've ever known personally
who ever saw them both
on the selfsame evening
That's two for you, Nellie.
Never occurred to you until later,
you might not be worthy.
That's why I stay away
from anything religious nowadays,
Nellie says,
I get carried away, you know.
Jamie Reid
Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)
Here on the headland by Downe's Point
we case dreams to rise
synchronous with eagles and gulls,
all make-believe, egocentric,
near to fanatical,
else aim true to roam deep
with Leviathan in the ocean's mind,
free from perplexities and profundities
such as bind the scheduled self
Here is the arbutus grove
whose trunks and branches tighten
like nerves, twisted witnesses,
victims of shapely winds
which blow in always unseen,
sweet from the south
or coming cold from the north,
from every direction
the prevailing force of nature
Wish I could emulate the arbutus
slough off my thin skin as easily
as these natives trees their bark
from abrasion, disdain or design,
unveiling the bare beauty
of strong, hard wood beneath
Over on Fossil Bay
the rot of herring roe
strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs
on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock,
thickened the morning air,
but gave no cause for bereavement:
these millions of botched birthings!
And none also for the Salish,
no open lamentation for a race
almost obliterated without trace
from their native habitat
save a few totems, some evidences of middens,
a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits
carved a thousand years ago
on smooth flat rock by the shore,
of killer whales, Leviathans again,
to guide their hunts,
the destiny of their tribe.
Having retraced them
gently with finger tips,
they now guide mine.
Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)
half of love
plus half of half
is halo and I
don't believe
in angels, no.
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