Tunnel Jumping: Poems
By Denis Stokes
()
About this ebook
Though the author's childhood was unlike mine, all the same these poems resonate, drawing me backward into my own. The poems are tightly crafted, but gently, rooted in the area where he grew up, and where I have recently landed as a stranger, not relating to it, not really feeling it at all. And yet, now, perhaps, I do.
I have so many favourite poems, especially Kiss `n' Ride, with its beautiful hypnotic rhyme scheme. Other readers will discover favourites of their own.
These are poems paying homage. they are heavily rooted in nature, honouring childhood experiences, childhood friends. And family, especially a father and grandfather. I love that grandfather! A reader would give anything to have that grandfather. I know I would, despite already having a beloved one of my own.
This is not a book to be scanned quickly. Slow down. Savour it. Enjoy the ride.
-Carol Malyon
'a voice with many compass points…'
Susan Ioannou
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Tunnel Jumping - Denis Stokes
Weil
Acknowledgements
MUCH THANKS FOR THE support of the following:
WAVES... LEFTOVER Tanka
The Crafted Poem...Pitcher in the Rain
Acta Victoriana... Bus Shelter
Grammateion...Swimming
U.C. Review... Dedication
Canadian Forum... Wayne is on the train/looking
Images (York University)... Warden Station
Descant... Damsels
; Closet News
(W)rites of Spring (League of Canadian Poets): Licking Honey from the Thorn... Tunnel Jumping
Arc... Fields
Carrying the Branch (Glass Lyre Press)... Tasting Africa
Leaping Clear... Zen
Iowa Source... Arriving Light
Several of these poems appeared in the anthology, Collected Words (with Bill Dunphy, Cecilia Petierse Kennedy, Des Daley, Paul McGraw)
Several of these poems appeared in the chapbook, Scarborough Poems (Wordwrights Canada).
Several other poems appeared in the chapbook What the Street Knows (Albernum Press).
Several of these poems appeared in the chapbook Peace Comes Dropping Slow (Albernum Press).
Zen
and Tasting Africa
appear in the collection, A Wolf Rages Down the Little Jocko.
The Blackstock Children
appears in the collection by the same name.
The author is most grateful for the support of the Ontario Arts Council, without which many of these poems would not have been written.
Much thanks to the Teachers Union of Malawi for their gracious, inspiring welcome.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
I
Leftover Tanka
Pitcher in the Rain
My Creek
Autumn Moths
Bus Shelter
Altars
Moving
In Elegy
This Bridge Ices
What the Street Knows
Leper’s Song
Warden Station
Kiss ’n’ Ride
Prayer upon Cleaning out the Yonge Street Washroom
Wayne is on the train/looking
Gethsemane
Crossing the Road
II
Dedication
Closet News
The Calling
Damsels
Tunnel Jumping
Fields
Woods
Final Suns
Kennedy Road, Woodyard Homings
Zen (from Deer Park)
Reasons
Swimming
III
In the Dark Hall the Key
Updates
In Summer Heat, Norland
From Lakes Revisited
Simcoe
Death is Romantic
North Oshawa, The Given Road
Chevrons
Sheds
The Blackstock Children
Installing the Light
Otto Preminger Begins
Near the Reservoir
The Enfield Searches
Old Song
Towards Lilongwe, A Walk
Tasting Africa
Girls of Ekwendeni
Ode to Malarone
Flashing*
Massau
Kapuscinski, Shadowing Sun
Foxridge Wonder
Half Penny
Arriving Light
Author’s Biography
I
HE PUSHED OPEN THE door and found himself walking in a labyrinth,
Corridors, elevators. The livid light was not light but the dark of the earth.
Electronic dogs passed him noiselessly.
He descended many floors, a hundred, three hundred, down.
-Orpheus and Eurydice, Czeslaw Milosz
Leftover Tanka
THE PIGEONS, GRAY AS the evening soon,
descend. The world chills a bit and
Feet shuffle over loose stones. A man
begs, too tired for a ragged violence.
You throw him a key to the city. He’s
lived long here. He remembers the tinges
of each sunset, the orders of noise- the angry
or humorous honking, the popular songs
telling us how we almost. Now a paper mist
is coming. Your eye pierces its covers,
searching for better words. Is this sky
spilling, or is it only giving us blood?
Wars, hungers and wounds, the lonely
sedentary travellers- it is sad, love, sad.
We are too weak for flames here. Our clasp
has loosened its joy. There’s only evening.
EVENING AND IT COVERS, spreads sad news:
‘No joy, no truths left to save us’. Tell
me only of beauty, a flame burning these mists
for gods. Soon the stars attend, but now
it’s only air we have, simple facts of breathing.
Pitcher in the Rain
THERE’S AN IDIOT DOWN there
across the church parking lot
in the schoolyard five stories down
pitching against the wall, pitching in the rain
so heavy the traffic’s slowing down,
so dark all the headlights keep flicking on.
A room or two’s
being used in the school.
They light up
the walls outside spilled with stains,
countless waterings-
road hockey pee breaks, berby, tennis and basketball,
spud every year or so.
Schoolyards know the stories.
Gulls circle by, remembering
this idiot pitching against the wind, perhaps
in this rain getting heavier by the minute
insisting upon the rhythms of his attempts
as if I were looking down instead through sunlight,
some benevolent summer.
But you can see the kapok, his skinned planet
hopping trout quick and mad off that wall
to the glove’s rapid snapping
at each sudden swerve for spin or stone.
The idiot- he must be soaked to the bone by now.
His arm must be hurting bad.
A starling or grackle laughs,
observes from a window