R: [acornlive] New poetry from the last little while

Christopher Neenan (acornlive@dublinwriters.org)
Sun, 9 Jul 2000 06:52:00 +0200 

Sean,
It's early in the morning or late in the night in Rome, Italy. I have just
given a quick look at your poems. I like very much what I see and 'hear'.  I
am getting some well-earned sleep now. But I will try to get back to them
today. They have a very convincing spontaneity; the lines have a good sound
to them, and they give me well-framed scenes I want to keep. Lucky you doing
this work and being only sixteen.
----- Original Message -----
From: Sean van der Lee <ritesean@hotmail.com>
To: <acornlive@dublinwriters.org>
Sent: Sunday, July 09, 2000 6:31 AM
Subject: [acornlive] New poetry from the last little while


> I'd be honoured if you guys could take the time to give these a read,
> they're my newest, inspired by this amazing summer I've been having out in
> the West - it is Stampede time in Calgary and I live so close to the
grounds
> that I can hear the Indians drumming away dully while kids scream on the
> rides. I'd be delighted if I could get some feedback as this stuff is all
> pretty new and (for me) somewhat groundbreaking in terms of my development
> as a poet - keep in mind that I am still sixteen so there is a lot of
> developing still to be done. Perhaps a little note on context would be in
> order: these poems are centered upon the Canadian West and deal with
issues
> ranging from the plight of the Plains Natives to how we youths live life
to
> the fullest in the summertime.
> Thanks,
> -Sean
>
>
> Matador Realized
> Give us a clear prairie dawn -
> the phoenix sun rising from the pitch black ashes of night
> as we ascend from this dust -
> To dance barefoot across a dew-strewn lawn
>
> Fingers flailing freely about,
> Unintentionally mocking the stars,
> that fade overhead as our day breaks:
> With steadfast silence they resist -
> Gradually sunlight blows them out.
>
> Let us fall, exhausted into a gentle noon,
> Drop into siestas; dream matador dreams:
> Fantasize of bulls unnamed, horns untamed
> Flare out at us, we have caused beauties to swoon,
> We sweep them off their feet and
> awake
> As the sun sets upon our day
> We return to the fields to dance,
> Watch smirking stars reclaim the East,
> While below them we tirelessly prance
> On towards the advent of the night,
> Kicking sun-scorched grass to dust
> As we fall with the dying of the light.
>
>
> Civilization
> 125 years ago where my house now stands...
> On the floodplains of the Elbow,
> The T'Suu Tina camped for summer - untold days before,
> They had run a herd of buffalo off the cliffs nearby,
> And now the rivers ran red with blood
> As the women, laughing in their labour
> While naked children splashed about around them,
> Cracked bones for marrow on the rocks at the rivers edge,
> Underneath the cottonwoods that sighed as the South wind lazily stretched
> their limbs far overhead.
>
> 125 years later where my house now stands...
> On the floodplains of the dammed Elbow,
> A Sarcee man lay - untold days before,
> I had seen him, wobbling to beg
> Outside the Alberta Government Liquor store,
> Lips clasping a bottle in a paper bag which sucked
> The life from him with every sip and won
> Its just reward. Bottle cracked, beside the broken man,
> The police came to cart him away at a neighbours behest,
> Finding him dead, wondering,
> Why he couldn't be rolled over,
> Finally, chipping him with pick and hammer off the ground,
> To which his last urine had frozen him.
>
>
> Bronco
> The clacking of the geese, hollowed by the warm South breeze,
> Reaches wildly to my ears from across the wind-stretched trees;
> A lone, frothing stallion, eyes afire with dawns' freedom approaching
dusk -
> Hooves pounding the sun-scorched stubble mingled with springs upstart
> sprouts -
> Brother to the wind that carves down the mountains' back and races
> alongside,
> step for step,
> Over hills, bending the dry, crackling grass, rippling water and beyond
> while the horse suddenly halts -
>
> Head hemmed in by the jagged, snow-steeped peaks and the horizon
unreached,
> Stares after the wind, which tousles its' wild, white hair, stands
> Like an Indian Pinto, heart pounding, nose pointing forlornly at a
> barbed-wire fence
>
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