Helluland

    We built bottlecaps off
    ship's sides
    (soft, cedar bough),
    Viking masts
    shining thru imagined
    Norse seas.

    Sporting logs,
    (sweet, cedar-wood shavings)
    piercing beer hats/silver foil,
    grey wraps & burlap,
    Atlantic capes,
    our twin peaks soared.

    New Found Land
    (a child's faery shrimp logistics
    aide-de-camp simplistics)
    marvelled tale
    of warm, butter moon
    with outpourings around
    penknife's blade.

    To tame Sutton Hoo,
    (I am very close to myself tonight)
    bronze copper, cruising wintery water,
    Anse aux Meadows,
    occasional dirt shack
    skraelings,
    jagged blade & arrow
    backward into time
    for Helluland,
    yet marooned in the Land
    God gave Cain.

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

Pyromania

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Chinatown I

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Red Illusions Under Glass

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Fabulist

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Ahoy

    Image throttled in the subconscious,
    romantic throwback -
    the mind on a voyage round land's end
    to eclipse pyramidal fires
    set as beacons along rock strewn shores -
    her skeletal inhabitants on ice flows
    wrapped in bearskins
    with dirks between their teeth
    slapping one another to keep warm.

    Then, alpine ranges carrying
    the plight of the Andes in their mouth;
    a dull, white sail propped against ship's bow
    with a noise like an anvil
    coming loose in the brain.

    More frightening, sailors mutiny on a diet
    of bread as sallow maggots
    march in a quarter horse sized trot
    across the floorboards.
    Such men in the bellows of one's mind
    break out rubber dinghies
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Paleface

    Old Sawbones, pale as a sheet,
    white sand, whispering edge of the sea.

    II
    The mind tarries not one place long,
    (longitudinal wanderings off a map).
    Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)
    devours like larvae,
    a bullet ledge for leaves.

    III
    I saw in a rusty tankard
    a gallon drum
    (ghostly galleon at that),
    a tin can floating for
    all the world shores
    of its alkaline prison,
    pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,
    brackish bench-pressed sound of waves
    wedged between far-off distant gulls
    and mezzanine,
    dimly-lit funeral parlour
    of the sun.

Paul Cameron Brown

Wanderlust

    Who administers to my needs?

    Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that
    yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen
    suggestive of some actor's
    smeared and garish make-up?

    Or the cicada's song,
    difficult to describe,
    laundering thick summer heat?

    Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly
    especially active at the close of day and drawn
    to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

    If none of these
    breathes vigour or tonic
    through my nostrils,
    what of tubs of fresh water?

    Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats
    and children as make-shift sailors,
    then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.
    Bold harbours will be their cues,
    astrola...

Paul Cameron Brown

When I Was A Much Younger Man

    When I was a much younger man,
    my spiritual homeland was a scrub-mile of bush with thicket
    leaves the size of your palms.

    Saucer-size holes of white air enveloped the edge of trees
    and the sky was large, an upturned pitcher
    placed upon its ears...
    edge-wise cicadas & June Beetles let out long throbs
    and the people rounded out lives between the farmhouse & the barn.
    This ennobled them and they were famously resilient and, in turn,
    redolent with firmness & the gladness of life.

    There was a Drive House, a pig pen, sheds & a chicken coop and, by
    night, stars became the earlier evening swallows gulping the space Left in
    the train of the moon. There was no one Empress of the Night anymore
    than a Pr...

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Offerings (A Movement In Four Parts)

The night is folly without the moon,
trees blank space against a frontal sky
where lattice work from a bled fish reveals
skeletal markings will not administer
the red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.

Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach
(I don't recommend them) to offerings
of white linen, cold squares atop
a stone diamonded floor.

Palaver shacks drone in ghostly light
communicating some message about eel runs
up the black river, the equivalent brush
of tombstones against dark nightsoil.

Tiny bars open as cubicles.
proverbial flashes of the coming evening,
haciendas to count every blessing.

The road to such places
snarls a dusty pleasure
and will heat thin blood
to boil in the daylight hours.

II

Swe...

Paul Cameron Brown

Tank-Top

    I was playing sonatas on your skin -
    no beauty & the beast scenario
    though the Tower pulchritude was intact
    with enough purple agape grape leaves
    and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve
    with wind wet at the windows
    (and later the willows),
    where gravelly, cloven hooves became party
    to my thoughts; for you,
    blessed with a triangular patch,
    - and something like strawberry -
    lay moist & woven into strict tapestry
    like a mantle covering
    abrupt oasis of skin
    (the better to peer in).

    I scaled the heights
    not castle vaults, mind you,
    but the elevator shaft and draw-bridge equivalent
    of a white charger -
    fierce visor in place
    - armour gleaming -
    a sabre ...

Paul Cameron Brown