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

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

Picpus

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Fishing Nets

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Desire

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Clandestine Operation

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Shamrock

    Is there anything prettier than that -
    to stare into your manifold spaces
    toward the hook & vine
    of cathedral leaps,
    the vaults & crypts
    as go-betweens of an earthy worship,
    the supine female form?

    By quiet pools,
    thrush in the thicket
    with red berry behind its eye,
    miniature sun
    proceeding by the branch
    to undress the bark
    with leaves as
    passionate culprits
    kissing dark.

    Clasped hands
    upward lies the sky
    my masterpiece angel,
    I bite lush meadows,
    tread spongy brooks,
    endear daring small of back,
    crevice taste nape and neck,
    a beatific pilgrim nearing
    a fleshy way-station,
    first charting his co...

Paul Cameron Brown

Cold Passion

        Some dead undid undid their bushy jaws,
        and bags of blood let out their flies.. .
                    ? Dylan Thomas

    The land is barren
    wears straw wisps
    as an unkempt man
    might razor stubble.

    The land is dry, a faded yellow
    in its barrenness.
    A sky broods from afar,
    a stalactite sun accounts merely a jot
    above that thin road into despair.

    Grass lies everywhere dead,
    faded tongues above an
    earth afflicted with scleroderma,
    deadliest of skin disturbances,
    forerunner of deeper pestilence.

    An erasing wind whips the fields
    further into bereavement;
    turns tiny bits of chaff to pursue themselves
    in a mad St. Vitus dance
    of cold...

Paul Cameron Brown

Naiad Trance

    The leaves on their trumpet flames
    Richter scale inside pulse stems -
    into the gorge, la gorge
    throat and crevice
    of the canyon arroyo.

    Walking the slit
    into rheumatism earth
    the twilight pain
    of Paleozoic ice,
    Jurassic Age
    whence rupture
    sculpted rock

    River precipice
    the afternoon dangling like shadow
    beside taiga sun
    lost to dark & rain
    toward the water now,
    ever, and chemical rushing sound.

    Chameleon, I would swear
    this journey was that,
    worse, sorceress on my emotions;
    I left pathways contoured with Merlin rock
    & trees like Babbitt refugees
    from the Nahanni,
    fearful Dogrib aboriginals
   ...

Paul Cameron Brown

The Waters Of The Bay Lie Beneath

    An abandoned house -
    dark salved to eclectic;
    crinkly, black pigment of old pine boards
    disparate to the elements.

    The waters of the bay lie beneath.
    A long slope trailing back of brush,
    garbles stones hoarse
    in the throat of a dust-flecked field
    are made more barren
    by the skunk cabbage weeds,
    the ugly, flotsam cloaks
    of horse hair to the neck -
    a hair shirt, coddling abrupt the barren pain
    tilled from empty soil.

    The summer's heat.
    Nameless insect waifs
    wavering, adjusting tumult
    to straighten the tight air
    about the outward door frame.
    Pinched in windows, glass in
    refugee lots billowing about
    urine paper;
    nails a ruddy pick

Paul Cameron Brown

Leaves Of The Cecropia Tree

And what of privileged things
mur & frankinscense
or sandlewood    -
yes, teak, ambergris
or skies of indigo blue
-    I cite these gifts,
caravans offered as treasure
Christopher Wren putting
the domes of St. Paul
in place like worn spectacles
over a cherubic face.

The last gargoyle pops in sight
near Notre Dame
such cathedrals are whitened sepulchre
stones in "stately
pleasure domes
decreed".

I see the Taj Mahal
where Mahatma Gandhi might have trod.

The utterance of a tulip
in every parable Christ talked;
rosebuds gleaming milk
on the breath of lilacs
their shields of lilies
shone where Solomon walked.

Song of Songs is none other
than the poet's heart,
water across stones.

Paul Cameron Brown

Bloodstream

Camping out, a miraculous thing happened.
The kaleidoscope of vision was focused on a precipice,
caught endangered water about to fall
under microscopic attention.

Moisture was shortlived; so, too, congealed lava sheets
& bedrock over which the water flowed.
The cabin in the distance seemed prisoner to mist
while a rainbow gathered its wits for the next performance.
Nowhere did leaves intrude though a fly made
headway up a glass pane
embedded in wood like antidiluvian plants have been
known to seek amber.

In their chorus, other flies droned then ran up & down the ledge.
In the iate sunshine of the day, a bastardized vision of dirt farmers,
pioneers imprisoned in similar toil.

Paul Cameron Brown