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Poetry has been part of our Island life since our ancestors began to gather here. Most of us remember our parents rhynming off "recitations" that would make our jaws drop. I don't think kids have to do that anymore. We were on the edge. Mildred Harrington had quite a repertoire and so did Austie Trainor "Santa Claus" - so did our father. Whatever it was that stuck, I just can't pass over something written in verse without spending a moment. Poetry has been in Island newspapers since they started printing them. Here's one from the PEI Registre of September 1826, signed "Mc." He[?] claimed it was written "on straying among the rural scenes on Hillsborough Bay" Here's one verse: Still fair be thy flowers tho' they blossom unseen,And then there was the one in The Examiner in May 1850 about Mayflowers: Far away o'er the heath, on the mossy hill side,E.M. in 1842 wrote in the Royal Gazette about Mayflowers this way: "Welcome pretty floweret, Hardy little thing, Wintry storms before thee fly Thou herald of the spring." And then some else wrote "A home so dear. lies in the sea, An Island that we love Surrounded by great rocks and sand And clear blue sky above."
We had more serious poets, too like John LePage [1813-1886] (who called himself The Island Minsteral), John Cavan, John Hunter Duvar, an Elizabeth S. MacLeod, Elizabeth Lockerby and of course Lucy Maud Montgomery. And there were others who had a natural bent. Once we had Margaret Furness MacLeod read at Beaconsfield. She was along in years then, but beautiful and gracious. She lived in Montreal, but she was born in Vernon, PEI. She wrote this one in memory of her father:
Lose something every day,
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
I lost my mother's watch. and look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms, I owned, two rivers, a continent.
Even losing you [the joking voice, a gesture
I love] I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like [Write it!] like disaster.
Before April is over I'll share a John Betjamin poem and who by Booke Aster that is wonderful - in my mind. Go read a poem today.
Written Sunday, April 16, 2000 at 09:20 PM |