"algonquin" poems
walking down park
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked
before you rode
subways to the stock
exchange (we can’t be on
the stock exchange
we are the stock
exchanged)
did you ever maybe wonder
what grass was like before
they rolled it
into a ball and called
it central park
where syphilitic dogs
and their two-legged tubercular
masters fertilize
the corners and side-walks
ever want to know what would happen
if your life could be fertilized
by a love thought
from a loved one
who loves you
ever look south
on a clear day and not see
time’s squares but see
tall Birch trees with sycamores
touching hands
and see gazelles running playfully
after the lions
ever hear the antelope bark
from the third floor apartment
ever, did you ever, sit down
and wonder about what freedom’s freedom
would bring
it’s so easy to be free
you start by loving yourself
then those who look like you
all else will come
naturally
ever wonder why
so much asphalt was laid
in so little space
probably so we would forget
the Iroquois, Algonquin
and Mohicans who could caress
the earth
ever think what Harlem would be
like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears
grew sending
a cacophony of sound to us
the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful
owls sending out whooooo’s making love ...
and me and you just sitting in the sun trying
to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys
koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness
ever think its possible
for us to be
happy
Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
In Algonquin, before the dawn
before they’re clouds, the fog rises
tucked under the echoing loons
above the fat smell of wet soil
before the day becomes day
before you are a person
and the light of day breaks
the green sky casts a hue
incubating the lake
until life becomes life
until you become human
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
Come home from eagle-throated distance,
The canoe-tip of the crescent moon scuds
Into the silted, mud-bed of heaven.
Her face-dream beside the pine trees
The mollusc of purpled wampum beads shining.
Bury my hands, ninidji, in the eagle’s nest,
Carry my feeling words to her on wings.
Let her mix roots, berries, clay
and the feather of my hands
To paint her face with my words and these trees.
Or let my hands ripple like flat-fish
Above the silt-bed of her slim stomach,
Held there in radiant scaled warmth.
Lappihanne, the rapid water of our river heart,
Like an arrow that glides from the bow,
My people where the tide ebbs and flows.
To us both, the dark, golden edge of woods whispers, kuwumaras…
And the water arrow will never land,
But carried in my eagle’s hands,
I say kuwumaras, my love, and pierce through all darkness
To the empty path made full with the ripples of all who have passed.
My nika, swan of the woods, let us dive into the dark, golden sea
Of forever in the hills.
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC
My father used to sing this ditty for us:
"Columbus sailed the ocean blue
in 14 hundred 92
He sailed as far as Chicopee Falls
...and there he left his overalls"
When my teacher asked where Columbus landed,
I knew exactly where! Out of my seat, hand waving in the air... "Oooo ooo me! I know!"
"Yes, Liz..."
"Chicopee Falls!!" ...and I argued the accuracy, VEHEMENTLY.
At least Chicopee was a genuine Native Algonquin word, meaning violent waters.
Thanks Dad!
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
He stands on the stage with muscles tensed and mind relaxed. His ability to perceive anything at once is employed. And there are twins in the hall, a frog in the toilet, and nowhere (out of sight) is the aphrodisiac named Lenny. A common misconception is the conception of any order at all, and everything you want to exist now, or ever existed, a priori: this is the meat-muscle, the excreting weener, of Cain.
"Nowhere, man," states the deaf mute with essence, "must have a musk, a muse." An Algonquin replied, "Stay away from that horrifying ontology."
The man on the stage is at the same time becoming less inquisitive, more unconcerned and fallow, and now he watches their amusement from off-stage!
Now, those poor, poor people on the balcony--watching him, recording every minute--they do not cow him, for he watches them as an aside only, for the figure on the stage rises, mimicking an immense marble statue. His spine stretches, as the calls of his own voice call out, in his own voice emit, for the figure on the stage, especially when he calls, little or no recognition. The only voice, obviously, is this unrecognizable, willful voice that once belonged to him. Although it cannot be, it can. Although it is not possible (that it is not), it is. His personal translation beckons concern.
With all his initial reactions lost, no longer won, no longer controlled, he is, by those very two filters, totally unmediated. But steadfast guile and limitless misery become his (one-two) weapons. The elations, employed at last year's performance, are absent. Crying, he becomes, just as defeated as a whim. But his legs move around, and he jives and jives and jives, like a crazy set of legs, as if almost no technique is being spared. Tonight. Tonight he is earning his pay. Pray. Prey. Tonight! But only a willful moneymaker, a master of his control, in this reality, earns him his pay.
"Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! For I'm praying you!" screams an old man in the orchestra pit, "For I'm paying you with my best! Tonight! In all ways, I am yours!"
The dancing marble man looks up. He looks at the world. And from the smoke, a seed believes its lofty purpose lost, in a mournful message, in a reluctant admission to that unforeseen realm, of communiqué.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
I’d worked late each night that summer,
I had some free cash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.
The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
I recall his lovely voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.
Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite cancer's indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.
She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I 'd been just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.
She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.
I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”
We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.
I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.
“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”
She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.
“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”
I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a warm and humid night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.
I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
I’d worked late each night that summer,
before the crash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.
The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
You may recall his tenor voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.
Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite age’s indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.
She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I was just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.
She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.
I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”
We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.
I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.
“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”
She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.
“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”
I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a warm and humid night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.
I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.”
– Allama Iqbal
In September,
the harvest moon,
named by the Algonquin people.
A gift to the earth;
endowed for corn, beans, squash, sunflowers,
and received in bright
thankfulness.
When, finally, the time arrives
for an autumn moon
to take its place between the earth and sun,
swooping as close to earth
as bright fireflies filling the sky.
Lunar scheduling;
a time to deliver scoops of light to
the shadowy earth.
Human faces staring upward
at the inky sky.
Stars dimmed by the golden moon
that shines on prairies, sand, on city streets;
glowing its song of moonlight;
offering a nocturne to the silent ground.
Each upturned face,
waiting to be christened with moonlight;
a conduit of heavenly fire
that moves from face to face circling
in contra dance around the rocky earth.
And each up tilted face
in Calgary and Cairo, Belarus and Brazil,
rhymes with golden light.
As the moon glow wanes above, it waxes here below;
endowing our faces with moonlight, a celestial loan,
leaving the moon with only orange and red,
while September yellow clings to us on earth.
The sound of light brushing our faces,
settling into place,
with sweetness of chamomile,
fragrant with the end of summer.
Whispers of the autumn equinox,
and the earth keeping promises.
Soon we must return
the borrowed lightening,
the buttery splash,
to the orange-red moon.
And we pay.
Not with regret,
but gladly.
All we who have seen the hushing of the moon;
we hold forever in the particles that make ourselves,
the seeds of moonlight.
Pieces of the moon.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
*Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.
Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
is as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many years.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind*
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC
**Native Lament
A Story of Innocence Lost
By
Jude Kyrie**
*Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.
Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
are as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many winters.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind again.*
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
four strapping teens surveying a map
the adventure of a lifetime in waiting
an expedition through backcountry
10 days 4 portages backpacks at the ready
paddles yearning to be dipped into glossy waters
an excruciating two hour drive for excited trekkers
launching canoes with but a trail & compass
crackling fires stoking companionship
seeking warmth from the crisp nighttime air
tents hoisted while listening to nature’s rhythm
crawling into sleeping bags serenaded by croaking frogs
exhaustion from a day of paddling bringing deep sleep
bright sunny dawn the wakeup call for rising
roaring campfire ready for pots and pans
breakfast cooked on an open flame a treat
time to pack amidst an onslaught of mosquitoes
drizzling day a reminder to the voyageurs of the past
portages carrying canoes overhead long & arduous
standing on the shores of turbulent Lake Opeongo
her challenges
beckon us
Andreas Simic©
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 7:08 AM UTC
exile is our fate
looking for a way home
even if we’ve never been home
exiled from my pulitzer
from my place at the algonquin roundtable
barred from the scotch of st. james 1966
john lennon’s holding my throne for me
but i can’t get in the club
exiled from our world conquests
our lives of leisure
exiled from the parents of our past
our children and ourselves as children
from the summertime of youth
and in the end
exiled from this ****** earth
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 1:16 AM UTC
Canada already has:
10 provinces
3 territories
3 coastlines
Baffin Island
Two Official Languages
The Niagra Horseshoe Falls (Way Better than the other one)
The CN Tower, Stanley Park, Old Quebec and not to mention The St. Lawrence Seaway, Whistler, Algonquin, Banff, Columbia Ice Fields, Montreal, Jasper... and on and on and....
More oil and gas than Saudia Arabia.
A belief in WHO and NATO and Green Energy.
A Great reputation,
and
Kindness and Dignity.
Why in the name of all that's decent would We want to make the United States our Fourth Territory.
To be a Province would take decades. Excess Baggage.
What we don't have is a narcissistic, mysogynistic, bigotted conman, who is a convicted womanizer, fraudster and felon, who has little regard for the betterment of our Earth and civilization, as our country's spokesperson.
We do have a soon peacefully and unwittingly departing P.M.
It will be a walk in the snow for him on rue Pere Pierre...Just in time.
Just Sayin"!
Dec 31, 2024
Dec 31, 2024 at 10:20 AM UTC