Canadian Poetry
Recognized Around The World

The Canadian poetry presented here is, by the unfortunate limitations of the author, English-language only in origin. I apologize to the wonderful French-Canadian poets who have made a significant contribution to the world poetry scene. What follows are the works of but a few of the wordsmiths who have made, or continue to make, their presence felt on the fertile and continually evolving stage of Canadian literature. Heather L. Long - 1998

John McCrae 1872-1918 In Flanders Fields In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. 1915 *

Wilfred Campbell 1858-1918 Indian Summer Along the line of smoky hills The crimson forest stands, And all the day the blue-jay calls Throughout the autumn lands. Now by the brook the maple leans With all his glory spread, And all the sumachs on the hills Have turned their green to red. Now by great marshes wrapt in mist, Or past some river's mouth, Throughout the long, still autumn day Wild birds are flying south. 1888

Leonard Cohen b. 1934 I Have Not Lingered In European Monasteries I have not lingered in European monasteries and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell; I have not parted the grasses or purposefully left them thatched. I have not released my mind to wander and wait in those great distances between the snowy mountains and the fishermen, like a moon, or a shell beneath the moving water. I have not held my breath so that I might hear the breathing of God, or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise, or starved for visions. Although I have watched him often I have not become the heron, leaving my body on the shore, and I have not become the luminous trout, leaving my body in the air. I have not worshiped wounds and relics or combs of iron, or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls. I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years. During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep. My favourite cooks prepare my meals, my body cleans and repairs itself, and all my work goes well. 1965

Leonard Cohen b. 1934 A Kite is a Victim A kite is a victim you are sure of. You love it because it pulls gentle enough to call you master, strong enough to call you fool; because it lives like a desperate trained falcon in the high sweet air, and you can always haul it down to tame it in your drawer. A kite is a fish you have already caught in a pool where no fish come, so you play him carefully and long, and hope he won't give up, or the wind die down. A kite is the last poem you've written so you give it to the wind, but you don't let it go until someone finds you something else to do. A kite is a contract of glory that must be made with the sun, so you make friends with the field the river and the wind, then you pray the whole cold night before, under the travelling cordless moon, to make you worthy and lyric and pure. 1961

Please click the 'next' button to read about
Robert W. Service, and "The Cremation of Sam McGee"

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