Around the Red Land Read online

  AROUND THE RED LAND

  NEW FOUND LAND POETRY SERIES

  Larry Small

  BREAKWATER BOOKS LTD.

  100 Water Street P.O. Box 2188 St. John’s, NL A1C 6E6

  www.breakwaterbooks.com

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Small, Larry, 1941-

  Around the Red Land / Larry Small.

  (Newfoundland Poetry Series)

  ISBN 978-1-55081-235-0

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8637.M35A66 2007 C811’.6 C2007-900314-1

  ©2007 Larry Small

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  We acknowledge the financial support of The Canada

  Council for the Arts for our publishing activities.

  We acknowledge the support of the Department of

  Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing

  activities.

  We acknowledge the financial support of the

  Government of Canada through the Book Publishing

  Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our

  publishing activities.

  Printed in Canada.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following for their many attempts at trying to convince me to take my lines beyond the kitchen table, although many times I questioned their wisdom: John N. Smith, the Montreal filmmaker, who is a master at the art of persuasion; Gerry Squires, whose celestial voice is to be taken seriously; Rex Brown, who often showed his frustration at my many hesitations, but was always generous with his smiles; and Des Walsh, who many times argued with all of his Irish Catholic passion. It was, however, his performance in front of company in his room at the Glynmill Inn that sealed my fate. There was no retreat! I also thank him for editorial advice across many kitchen tables when wine and music seemed to solve the problems of the world.

  Al Pittman’s friendship was always an inspiration; his melodious voice, as ubiquitous as the clouds, drifting along, never to be dampened by the Humber River.

  My sincere thanks to Pat Byrne, the real wizard of Oz, for whom no problem was insurmountable, whether it was the technicalities of language or computer technology. His hearty laugh was always followed by a solution in six seconds or less.

  Clyde Rose of Breakwater Books deserves special mention for his courage in bringing my lines to the public domain. To my daughter, Lori, I owe a deep gratitude for her nerve and willingness to read a final version of my manuscript that would portray to her, for the first time, a world alien in the extreme.

  To Valerie Sooley I owe much appreciation for attempting to explain to me the workings of a computer. To someone who only mastered a three horsepower Acadia and a four horsepower Atlantic engine, this was a monumental task. But with sound advice I managed to type my lines although I expected them to disappear at any moment. I will never trust a computer, however, the way I trusted the ‘make and break,’ or even horses. Only your patience kept me sane, and possibly only your strong belief in what I was doing kept you answering my calls.

  for Lori & Valerie

  THE BAY FROM LONG POINT

  Families climbed the cliffs in June

  To watch the schooners round Cape John,

  But now, no schooners sing the song of fish.

  The southwest wind blows down from Fridays Bay

  But finds no trapmen on the grounds,

  The berths without their moorings,

  Their names vanishing from the lexicon.

  The Old Sow weeps

  While Western Head stands vigil

  To the sea and ice.

  And what about the winds…

  Are they lonely now

  Since those who knew the nuance

  Of every breeze

  Have shipped into another life?

  Who will be a soulmate to the wind

  And who will give benediction

  To the Bay?

  WHICH WAY THE WIND BLOWS

  How well they knew the names of winds

  That wound their mouths

  Around their daily lives

  Of work and play

  Of twisted fingers

  And backs that bore the burdens,

  Too much for mortal man.

  No phantom this,

  Uncensored force beyond the land and sea

  That they had learned from childhood…

  The compass and the weatherglass.

  They knew the rules and menus

  Of maddening storms,

  Their souls attune to sunsets

  Of a thousand years,

  And skies at night

  When moons made love to earth

  And dippers with their handles bent

  Bade them look up

  And listen to their tunes.

  To orchestras of winds

  They knew the language and the notes

  And often sang the litany

  Of lessons long ago,

  (East be Nold / East nold East)

  The dictum of its ways.

  And easterlies with rains for fields

  The drying winds for fish and clothes

  And wells that bore the brunt Of summer suns.

  For glutted fish

  They prayed to the north,

  And to the south

  To shift the ice from land.

  To lift the burden

  From their master’s hand

  The horses played their music with the wind

  And wound themselves in empty fields,

  Helpmates for the weather.

  THE UPSTAIRS WINDOW

  Through the bedroom window

  We looked into the eye of the universe

  And saw everything from genesis until now.

  Houses and flakes and fish rooms

  And the tides tormenting the ocean.

  The bees of spring,

  Busy among the apple blossoms

  Of trees planted by men and women

  Who are now only faded memories.

  The women who worked the flakes In summer,

  Their souls and sexuality

  Wrapped in the obsidian fabrics

  Covering their tired and working bodies.

  The moon terrified the night

  As it played with the sea

  Or crept over clumpers of ice…

  Among rocks and trees

  The walls of bedrooms,

  The pages of unread books;

  Bore down on tired horses

  Tied to winter fences,

  Eating hay from gardens fast asleep.

  Through the same window Came the songs of birds,

  The blasts from ships’ horns,

  The cry of howling dogs in the dark.

  Macabre scenes of men and women

  Walking to churches,

  Their dignity descending around the harbour.

  When death came to visit,

  The ghostly sounds of church bells

  Tolling in their anguish,

  Flags at half-mast

  And blinds bending down on windows

  Weeping in their sorrow.

  Without those windows in the sky

  We cling to the hills and headlands

  To heal the darkness of the soul.

  DOWN TO THE GUNNELS

  They were boats of many metres,

  Built by men whose hands

  Knew suant lines,

  Their white a
nd ochre bodies,

  All summer long

  Sliced through translucent seas.

  The catch of cod from traps

  Twelve fathoms down,

  Within the lexicon of trapmen

  A waterhaul, a tuck of fish.

  The man who held the tiller

  Hid his pride,

  But parents and the children knew

  The currency of cod,

  Singing out the songs of fish

  To those too old for boats,

  But knew the anguish of no fish

  And came outside

  To watch the boats come in.

  From the lungers of the stage

  Came melodies from long ago

  As men moved forward for the view

  Of sights they never tire,

  The fear of want had disappeared today

  The carols of Christmas could admit another child.

  THE FISHERMAN

  for Chris O’Neill Yates

  It’s that time of year again

  Between summer and fall

  When the west winds of September

  Sing out their seasonal chorus

  Of changing leaves,

  And gardens green with the fruits

  Of spring and summer.

  He surveys the universe,

  Decides it’s a ‘good day on fish.’

  But only he

  A lifetime treading flakes

  Knows what a good day means.

  He lifts rinds from cone-shaped

  Piles of dried cod,

  A yaffle of fish

  Lodged in his forearm,

  Moves slowly along the flake

  Then, one by one,

  Spreads fish…

  Face to the sky, back to the sea,

  Back to the sky, face to the sea

  Until the flake is flush with fish…

  Rows of black, white and gold.

  It’s a solemn moment,

  Final judgements on his work,

  Traded in the market-place

  For food and fishing gear

  To pay the church,

  To pay the doctor.

  The oligarchs admonish his children,

  Their father’s work

  A thing of shame.

  But he is an artist and

  Connoisseur of cod…

  Gifts at Christmas,

  And at Thanksgiving,

  Prime fish displayed

  Around communion rails

  But never in the eateries

  Of his homeland.

  He knows the Iberian people

  Partake of bacalhau with oils

  From their olive groves,

  But he did not know

  That in Lisbon and Oporto

  The Portuguese place his salt cod on a pedestal

  With fine wines from their vineyards,

  Celebrated with ceremonies of high cuisine

  And messages from the cross.

  As you and all the men

  Who fished with you

  Sleep among the blueberry bushes

  At the top of the Three Hills,

  I bring you news;

  That we have moved from shame to greed,

  Ravished the sea,

  Polluted the ocean with our new technologies,

  And endured insults from the oligarchs

  Degrading your knowledge

  Of fish and the sea.

  Not bad after five hundred years.

  I wonder what you would say to us?

  LABRADOR LOVE

  You came from good stock

  On the eastern end of the island,

  Lulled by men who fished the Labrador

  And like the schooners,

  Your suant and statuesque body

  Occupied the minds of men

  Gathered on roads to yarn

  On Sundays and summer evenings.

  In silence, they watched you

  Working on flakes

  And holding the flesh of fish

  In stages built by those in their prime.

  Your beauty transfixed young men

  Who viewed the contours of your body

  While you gave them ice cream

  In cones as big as headlands.

  In the long winters of long ago

  Your kitchen was the concert hall

  On the eastern side of the harbour…

  Always visitors playing cards,

  Cutting and chewing tobacco

  And moving spittoons with animation

  As talk roamed around the room

  About fish and storms and schooners,

  Seals and ice and horses.

  Young men and women heard reviews of grandparents

  They never knew,

  Had never seen a photograph.

  What is it like today, living alone,

  Looking out on harbours covered in darkness

  In the dead of night

  With chimneys screaming out for smoke;

  On harbours that were once robust with rodneys,

  Schooners with sails

  And horses moving with the gracefulness

  Of westerly clouds?

  With no fog horns moaning under a hazy moon,

  Or flakes of salt cod spreading its smell and yellow hue

  From east to west

  While people sit around in stores and stageheads

  Sharing the infinite knowledge of their universe?

  I hope you are comforted by the mountains

  And meadows of hay never mown;

  The moon always rising over the ‘scrape’

  Making the harbour magic in winter,

  Turning apple blossoms to apparitions in spring.

  That you can listen to the sounds of the sea,

  Watch the wind play with the water

  And wonder at the morning and evening skies.

  Today you surround yourself with pictures

  From a lost world,

  Your telephone and TV.

  You visit the sick and the dead.

  Your steps are slower now,

  Your body bent,

  But your smile and sense of humor

  Are still intact

  Murmuring every now and then,

  ‘I don’t know what it’s all about.’

  SUNDAY MORNING

  You pulled your frail body

  Along a grassy slope

  Between the highway and the fence

  That housed your land.

  In that private space,

  Attired in dark coat and hat

  You moved with your white cane

  Carrying a smile as old as the icons

  At the altar of your faith.

  I wondered where you were going.

  Then out of the bright southwest

  Radiance of a Sunday morning

  I heard the faint bells of St. Peter’s.

  As the single sound

  Became louder and louder,

  So did the caricatures

  Of all the years your body

  Languished along the same path,

  Your faith still intact.

  GOOD FRIDAY

  Good Friday, always silent,

  The March sun expanding

  Out of the bowels of Wild Cove,

  Moving above the Quare and Middle Mountain,

  Across the frigid harbour

  Towards the Methodist and the Church of England.

  There was always church,

  The dark solemn figures, like migrating animals,

  Treading slowly towards their place of prayer

  And then with reverence reserved

  For crosses and communion rails,

  Feasted on salted herring

  Without a murmur,

  Never asking why.

  Nor did they ask about the deafening silence,

  Or why they went fishing

  On Big Pond and Little Pond

  Or why they thought throwing out dish-water

/>   Assaulted the face of Christ.

  I believe that they were afraid of making noise.

  THE PARLOUR

  The parlour held the seasons on its walls and windows.

  The sun’s rays, filtered through trees,

  Making their own soliloquys,

  While ghostly moonbeams moved over

  Mantelpieces bent with a backload of history

  And on reluctant lovers who would be lovers forever.

  The wall-papered walls with floral designs

  Reaching back to the Renaissance

  Penetrating the intruder

  Each time he unlocked the austere door.

  The walls mused with family mythologies…

  A large foreboding picture of a distant uncle,

  Lost at sea off the Spanish coast;

  Somber portraits of uncles from the First World War,

  My father’s grammar school picture

  And diploma, Malden, 1925.

  Furniture from the Dark Ages

  Lugged from America,

  Sitting on carpets made for mausoleums

  While in a distant corner, a Victrola,

  Occasionally belting out the voice of

  Harry Lauder. It’s here we celebrated Christmas,

  The tree standing ’till Easter

  Rolled its eggs from barrels of flour.

  Thereafter, only death unlocked the door

  And the parlour put on its macabre face

  Greeting men and women Who sat for hours

  Struggling with their own souls.

  NOT A TAYLOR LEFT ON TAYLOR’S ROOM

  Two centuries ago, with their West Country ways,

  Your people built homesteads around rock and sea…

  Stages erected on cliffs

  Struggled to stay anchored to the ocean

  While houses rose above the high water mark

  And the edifice to their religion –

  The grand workmanship of their own hands –

  Towered toward the sky.

  They made love here amidst the roar of the ocean

  Around the Red Land

  As ghostly light from lighthouses

  Shone through the snow dwyes of fall

  And foghorns moaned in foggy springs

  And full moons rose over Sligo Shore,

  Shedding light on cemeteries that held their people.

  They practiced their faith here, Church of England,

  And raised daughters whose beauty