Brébeuf

Brébeuf is looking at the land that bears his namesake. He has no recollection of the horrors to come for his gaze unfolds as if in a dream.

The wide expanse of blue water pleases him. Certainly the area holds potential - many hard and softwooded trees not unlike his native Brittany. In the warm glow of a July morning, he belittles his misfortunes, the present trials sapping little Ste. Marie.

The kindly father dashes the recent sleep from his eyes with cold brook water. The shimmer seems to fit the haze his current thoughts pivot in. Sweet water country might yet prove both fortress for Christian souls and strength at feeding Louis' New French dream.

The sun is no longer in the sky. Instead a ghoulish orange disc fastened between sharpened sticks is brought closer and closer to the white face. He is maddened with pain. The circular nature of the mind in torment flits to the earlier morning rumination. Someone spills part of a hissing kettle on the fire in mock ritual of the Baptism. Too abundant waters, ah yes that could prove a difficulty in cultivating this pleasant land. The swinish feast in preparation re-echoes thoughts of ample provisions so vital to this distant land.

An Indian brave stands holding the scalp, his face with all the leer of a carnival barker three centuries hence intent on making a sale.

Paul Cameron Brown

Paul Cameron Brown is a Canadian poet known for his extensive work in both poetry and art criticism. Born in western Canada, Brown has had a prolific career in writing, often intertwining themes of human experience and nature. His works have been showcased in various literary magazines and anthologies. With a style that is both reflective and evocative, he has gained recognition not only in Canada but also internationally.

Paul Cameron Brown

1920's Flicker

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

The Toronto Star, Saturday, November 30, 1985

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Made In Space

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Guadalquivir

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Jean De Breboeuf

Jean de Breboeuf, a priest of the Jesuit Order, came to Canada as a missionary to the Indians about the year 1625. He belonged to an old and honourable French family that had given many sons to the army, and was a man of great physical strength, one who possessed an iron will, that was yet combined with sweetness and gentleness of temper.

He lived with the Indians for many years, and spoke the dialects of different tribes, though his mission was chiefly to the Hurons. By them he was much beloved.

At the time of the uprising of the Iroquois in 1649, there was a massacre of the Hurons at the little mission village of St. Louis upon the shores of Georgian Bay. There Jean de Breboeuf, refusing to leave his people, met death by torture at the hands of the conquering Iroquois. Lalement, his friend, a priest of the same ord...

Virna Sheard

To Cross The Bay

"I wouldn't try a crossing in weather like this," warned the old man. "It's a bad time of year, what with the wind and all. Worse still, the lake water is lethal by November. That means if you capsize it will be the chill that does you in."

The old man stopped short, conscious of the look of defiance in the youth's eyes. Young fool biting the nose to spite his face, he thought.

The marina was closed for the season, but the island's residents made contact with the mainland one way or the other. Until mid-winter there was a ferry service, but that assumed a fair bit of discipline from a resident. He had to go and come when the province obliged. Young bloods off to escape the monotony of Wolfe Island were only marginally willing to conform their Saturday festivities with an arbitrary ruling. No, it was too easy to keep ...

Paul Cameron Brown

Baptism In Lake Allumette

Oh Allumette, hemmed with thy fringe of pine,
    Watched over by thy mountains far away,
Thy waters have been troubled oftentime,
    Never before as they have been to day!

The red man on the war path, with light stroke,
    Hath cleaved thy waters moving stealthily;
Hunter and hunted deer thy surface broke
    With splash and struggle of the living prey.

Across thy bosom venturous Champlain
    And faithful Brule have pursued their way;
Seeking for distant golden Indian vain
    Finding Coulonge while searching for Cathay

The knights of industry the sons of toil,
    Trouble thy waters in the eager strife
To win success and wealth, the glittering spoil
    For which men daily peril more than life

'Twas a new motive from their homes to...

Nora Pembroke

Distemper

    Looking into the glassy crucifix of water.
    slits of rock form stigmata across creviced limestone -
    green pools with an occasional fish passing
    air bubbles to the top
    the eerie night crumbling under shafts of starlight
    with the smell of hemlock pods & cedar bringing
    nard and precious stone within
    crowns of natural thorn -
    this body of muskeg pressed onto
    aromatic herbs then borne away
    along the road to a wooded Calvary and
    the sense of Christ
    in that light at dawn.

Paul Cameron Brown

A Summer Evening Scene in Chateauguay

    Written In Montreal.

    Often, when the sun is sinking
        O'er the mountain's glowing crest,
    When the earth and heaven are linking
        In that bond of peaceful rest;
    Then, the weary city spurning,
        On this grand repose I gaze,
    And my mind, in fancy turning,
        Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.

    And I float upon the river
        At the selfsame time of day,
    When the sparkling waters quiver
        'Neath the slanting evening ray.
    Day's harsh memories forsaking
        With its jarring and its jest,
    For the soul is but awaking
        As the day is lulled to rest.

    Glimpse of even's glory getting
        As the summer sun serene,
    In his softened splendour setting,

W. M. MacKeracher

In Camp.

With sable wings wide o'er the land
night sprinkles the dew of the heavens;
And hard by the dark river's strand,
in the midst of a tall, somber forest,
Two camp fires are lighted and beam
on the trunks and the arms of the pine trees.
In the fitful light darkle and gleam
the swarthy-hued faces around them.
And one is the camp of DuLuth,
and the other the camp of Tamdóka.
But few are the jests and uncouth
of the voyageurs over their supper,
While moody and silent the braves
round their fire in a circle sit crouching;
And low is the whisper of leaves
and the sough of the wind in the branches;
And low is the long-winding howl
of the lone wolf afar in the forest;
But shrill is the hoot of the owl,
like a bugle-blast blown in the pine-tops,
And t...

Hanford Lennox Gordon