Category Archives: Autumn

The Movement of Hands

The moon is where now? I have forgotten to look. Time has tied itself To the movement of your hands On a keyboard in the night.

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, Micropoetry, New poems, Poetry, Tanka, The Moon, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Restless Particles (a Hallowe’en sestina variation)

Near the bottom of the street a crow’s nest rests high in a linden. A loose stick tap- tap-taps in the wind that oboes its moan through October evening eaves. That wind wept rain all day into the nest and … Continue reading

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Now as the Larches

Even the asters let their petals fade and fall, succumbing to frost now as the larches ignite the thin flames of their needles.

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Pissing Contest

At the edge of the cape late in August, with thoughts of autumn and school just starting to curl about their ankles—as the first thin, dark tendrils of the incoming tide begin to lash around the rocks below— two boys … Continue reading

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Connaught Square

Who mourns these elms, diseased, inconsolate, their long, undulant limbs dropping leaves earlier each year, small disasters splitting the rough bark of lesser branches, peeling it away from the tips down, little by little, while the wood begins to silver … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Charlottetown, Dutch elm disease, Elms, John MacKenzie, Language, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Social Commentary, Sonnet, Spring, The Rain, The Wind, Time, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Amongst the Green

Andrew Mitrovica has a great piece at ipolitics about Stephen Harper and his policies. Here’s the beginning: “Before last week, I thought I understood the depth of Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s malevolence. I was wrong. Only now do I appreciate … Continue reading

Posted in Autumn, Death, Hunger, John MacKenzie, Malnutrition, Micropoetry, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Poverty, Social Commentary, Tanka, The Earth, The Wind, War, War poems | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Self-Portrait of a Blind Man at Evening

  Self-Portrait of a Blind Man at Evening Maybe you’ve seen him by the harbour in the south wind, listening, trying to hear over waves the distant fugue whale pods still continually compose off Chile in groans of carbon compressing … Continue reading

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Old Men In Love

Old men in love, awakening stiff In their joints and contemplating the hard Task of getting up into the day, Dream of past mornings. They remember cocked Hips and bent knees, and the pressing Engagements that rose reliably as green … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Consciousness, Harbour, Hillsborough River, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Social Commentary, Sonnet, Spring, Summer, Tide, Time | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Darkness Settles Early

Darkness Settles Early The end of August. The turning wind edges north. Though darkness settles Early now, the evening crows Find their way home. Where are you?* *Tankas really are country songs.

Posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Autumn, Country music, Crows, John MacKenzie, Mary Gauthier, Micropoetry, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Tanka, The Wind, Time | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Another Year in the Minors

April Between pitches, the left fielder counts the green threading slow through last year’s yellow grass May Behind him the lilacs shiver at his passage, scent each throw back to the infield with desire June Scuffing his toes at the … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Baseball, Cosmology, Gravity, John MacKenzie, Language, Lilacs, Mathematics, Memory, Minor league baseball, New poems, Physics, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sabermetrics, Space, Spring, Summer, The Sky | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Frost Chrysanthemums (Chinese poetry)

Another old Chinese poem. Again, no idea who the author was. And again, worked from a literal translation by Andrew Griffin, which is below the poem. Frost Chrysanthemums In one night the autumn wind split open all the seams of … Continue reading

Posted in Andrew Griffin, Art is lies, Art is theft, Autumn, Chinese poetry, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Spring, The Sky, The Wind, Time, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

In November’s Dark

In November’s dark the pitch of the wind shudders up and down octaves, wails diminished minor chords through the many fretted trees

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The Blue of This (Late Afternoon)

See the yellow scrap of moon up there chased by the wind and crows across the blue of this late afternoon deepening with November? I’m sure it was this morning I found it, full and white, and wrote your name … Continue reading

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At The Deciduous November Riverbank (TDNRB)

The elms and lindens scatter gold and the maples discard flawed rubies— but the stingy autumn oaks hold tight to tarnished pennies

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November Evening Quatrains

Fever Ray—Keep the Streets Empty For Me   November Evening Quatrains Here’s what happens. The planet spins into night. The wind blows leaves round in a circle under the stars’ ageing light. Over the harbour, the darkness hiding its white … Continue reading

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Bare Limbs Rooting

Their bare limbs rooting in November skies, elms draw winter down to us

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November (poems from old notebooks, 2002)

I’m beginning to wonder if I have an infinite number of poems buried in old notebooks. Which would be handy, as I can feel a haze of writing laziness forming around me. November A background rain of static, a radio … Continue reading

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Sonnet with Wild Goose (Poached)

Boil up the potatoes, whip them good with butter, cream, and red onions to scoop in peaked mounds and bake golden. Lift down the hanging garlic and chop it fine with salt and crushed pepper to rub into wild goose … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Food, John MacKenzie, Language, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, Wild Geese | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Red Tambourines of Deep October

Last night at work I saw a friend leaving with her red tambourine under her arm and said, “The woman with the red tambourine. Thought for a second, and added, “That should be a song—there’s the title, you should write … Continue reading

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Let’s Forget the Sea

Let’s forget the sea and all its salt that gathers on, sharpens our tongues, forget how it swells, urgent in the night, a wet, rhythmic push of water on rocks, forget the sea at its evening low ebb withdrawn beyond … Continue reading

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