Fishing Nets

    The polar stars drip in blood . . .
    Orion's mythical crystal white
    with clarity of forest and
    low expanse of sky;
    wooden barques, incandescent,
    row peals of silver light
    sowing each slough of wave,
    spider hues drip upon wetness
    forlorn with tug and rein.

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

White China Plates II

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Passageways

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Collusion

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Blue*Eyed Grasses

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Night Fishing At Antibes

    A beach back of bric à brac,
    wine goblet of sky ... .
    the horizon beginning
    somewhere between Nod &
    nigh unto forever with
    only the sigh of a Casuarina pine
    or sea-grape to force a smile.

    It was entering into twilight
    - our minds were sailing ships,
    mere vagaries upon the waves,
    mine more a clippership
    on the Frisco to China run.

    Soirèe intimée,
    apèrtif, digestif?
    A bottle of rum
    with Eleuthera for a name
    - the prettiest coves
    have steadfast winds
    dark about portside.

    Silvery light of stars,
    the stars like black hansom cabs
    with livried footmen before
    shark-toothed clouds,
    a shark-faced moon,
    the sigh...

Paul Cameron Brown

Tide Charts

    To create dream -
    the pearl thru wine effect,
    oil and vinegar viscidity
    of giant salad leaves
    basking on the
    broken picnic table
    like so many lemurs
    taken to a
    Malagasy forest.

    Liverwurst on rye,
    cuff-links drag
    the hard, mica table;
    so, why be afraid
    'cause spume from waves
    glows upward
    in so many trails of
    grey-laden smoke?

    This island looks like a loaf,
    a dot or mole on inviting cheeks,
    to me; so wary, invariably, of land
    (and perhaps the Sand Man)
    amongst all those wandering eyes,
    especially the sea-scape,
    curl of snake
    illuminated
    in a sudden, tropic shower.

    See the sudden bandanna ...

Paul Cameron Brown

The Gingham Dream Utterance

    As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels to
    alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from
    every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with emerald marks.
    A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silver
    bellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.

    I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled from
    rambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue darting in an upturned fish's tail.
    An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eisel
    fish decorates a steeper, coral garden.

    Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocence
    of this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit slivers o...

Paul Cameron Brown

Night Sky

I can call a lake a kettle
a splendid, ivory comb a snare    -
tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.
the night sky my ariel home.

Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs
a collarbone of doubt
inching into my anatomy
Everest-wide.
surging canals into my throat.

I am a pianist plying my trade
playing to waves    -
the wharf and pier
passionate onlookers
entranced with joy.
sailors wearing blond caps
in stout approval
their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.
smashed bottles accumulated days at sea
lapping the dock.

Paul Cameron Brown

Twinkling Of An Eye

    On twin tails of a comet
    penguin men polka dot
    the night -    -    -
    waddle white suits
    past pale the white Empress Night,
    flickering graveyard stars
    - -a pitcher of inky black
    upended in a choir and manger

    II.
    Lowing of the clouds
    lowering overhead like bombardiers
    rifling the Firmament,
    black braying back.

    III.
    Millpond, satin and creamy,
    then buttercup crush of waves

Paul Cameron Brown

Evening: Barents Sea

The trawl of unquiet mind drops astern

Great lucid streamers bar the sky ahead
(bifurcated banners at a tourney)
light alchemizes the brass on the bridge
into sallow gold
now the short northern
autumn day closes quickly

the thin coast
(of grey Norway is it, or of Russia?)
distinguished only as a formal change
in the pattern of clouds on our port side

on the deck the strung lights illuminate no
movement but the sullen swill of water
in the washer, but the unnatural way
dead starfish and disregarded dabs swim
in the strict seas surging through the bilges
and out. A fishgut hangs like a hank of
hair from the iron grill in a pound board

brighter now that the sun, the fishfinder's
green bleep catches the skipper's intentness

Ben Jonson