Chad Norman – Three Poems

Chad Norman‘s  poems have appeared for the past 35 years in literary publications across Canada, as well as a number of other countries around the world.
He hosts and organizes RiverWords: Poetry & Music festival each year in Truro, NS., held at Riverfront Park , the 2nd Saturday of each July.
In October 2016 he was invited by the Nordic Assn. for Canadian Studies to give talks on Canadian Poetry and read from his books at Borupgaard Gym in Copenhagen, and Risskov Gym in Aarhus, as well as other readings in both cities and Malmo, Sweden. Norman is currently working on a manuscript, Counting Coins In Denmark & Sweden.
His most recent book, Learning To Settle Down, came out 2015 , from Black Moss Press (University of Windsor, Ontario, Canada), and a new book, Selected & New Poems was published on April 2017 from Mosaic Press (Oakville, Ontario, Canada).
His love of walks is endless.


AFTER READING THE 3RD CANTO OF BYRON’S Childe Harold, 1817

Mary hidden behind a boulder;
a small sealed box on top of it

When the excursions made thought
seem last
and needless
the Intellectual rose rested
in the evening’s crawl
–is the Summer’s forever,
forgotten,
more to memory’s pace,
how the mind displays
life dimming to dream?

In a furtive year
after pain felt new
and yearnful
the comparison began
based on the body’s cracks
–is the Woman’s wider,
longer,
due to love’s trust,
how it supplies her heart
with instant answers?

All this escape
I blame on
dear ecstatic Albe !
Few have the scenes of
his smile kept for greetings;
I relive the lake leading
our early easy boat,
how the shore held still
with his vivid welcomes.


THE NIGREDO, 1820

Mary gathering driftwood for a fire;
a small sealed box in a circle of stones

Black,
I tell you the colour is a fiend,
and I do dare reveal
what a vigorous flirt,
after all
no other seduction won
my notions on the fertility of Death,
a morose season
I may soon abjure,
until then may night be suffice
unlike the Past,
when black
snuck from my mind
into the griefless light
of a room,
intending to violate
the brief valour
I woke to behold,
the aching ink
settled
in the page’s kind silence,
the fierce erect quill
my tiny life lived within.


THE RAFFISH, 1821

Mary sitting in the sand;
a small sealed box on one knee

Detained,
missing my carriage,
on a day when shadows
dared to be rooks,
I was without a reason
for my English intolerance
–isn’t it all sagas,
how fashion flaunts the Masses!

On the promenade among them
faces became dim and boring,
my mind sent forth a voice
loudening in words like “lowly”–
Pisa,
I shunted your showy peasants!

Curiosity brought about my stroll…

 

 

 

 

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