Jagged Wire

    A rail fence is more than that on a country dawn
    moving by lots over hill & stone;
    it barely pauses in the small of the field's lap,
    then is caught in grey positioning as
    light unfurls the sky.

    All is a matter of perfect blistering -
    dauber wasps are seen to heave the moistened wood
    in chunks to mossy furrows, benign
    in their firm embrace upon alabaster trees.
    There, crusts of heavy nails, marked
    like fortresses, droop in their rusty mail.
    Mostly ants, in open canter, move
    in as upon an urn & lance far more
    than jagged wire the breath of stillest air.

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

The Sandpit

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Cuando-Cubango

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Pastiche

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Cienfuegos

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.

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

Shivaree

    These kettle bells.
    Is it the axe-murderer,
    with green garbage bag
    in the shadows?

    No. Green trees so thick
    their tops are folded hands
    or knotted knuckles
    to make perilous shrubbery
    by the garden wall.

    Yet this is a state of mind
    and shards of multi-coloured
    glass dot the top of stones.
    Interesting. Should a sociopath put
    out his shingle, come calling,
    a much under-estimated, rude uttering
    would take place.

    Still bees are active in the night air,
    not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waft
    thru stiller air. There is no charged electricity
    to things, no tautness or leathery tightness to
    individual seconds. Still and stricken still.

Paul Cameron Brown

Presence Of Mind

    Spring heralds the summer with lilacs perched from that door.

    In snows, a swarm of bushes lie black and apparently rootless as the town's iron-gate bridge collapses under the centre part of the main road.

    Little enclaves of activity pass as stores, mere centrefolds across busy highway arteries this time of year.

    I am a grey fleck in my dark wool coat near the perimeter of a winding fence.

    The casual observer gives me half a chance to be seen in the deathless white, opaque coloured moonstone so still against the field's shores.

    A plaster river, her sides inserted with isle-dotted chunks, hands across a winter solstice tribal dance.

    Ostensibly, I poke the land from stylized limbo, a chalky substance disturbed with every movement's cough.

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

Inside Seam

    1

    Having wilderness cracks
    in emotional facades
    chinks within
    to let cabins in.

    2
    Porous wind
    examining pavement,
    foot-sore maybe loose
    winding entrails
    of our hearts
    into lavatory paper;
    would that it pleased
    riddled trees
    - more whistling,
    poked holes
    across oasis tracks
    wandering spaces.

    3
    Blistering thought,
    paint flecks
    chipped in the mica-afraid
    heat of wan-ton passion;
    (acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine)
    a wan smile
    left from which
    I pretend to remember all.

    4
    Love-smitten
    to lend
    the reach of your arm -
    sighs,
    droop...

Paul Cameron Brown

Fire Bush

    If flies be dragons
    and they may you know.
    In large desiccated brambles
    where wasps go
    involuntary blue-green coelacanths
    these Devil's Darning Needles
    wedge in Flying Circuses
    frame pale diaphanous wet green sky
    as shooting columns
    twig and Rock Face.

    There, fire-bush
    entrance scrapes paler wax
    green fronds then
    Blue Holes into canopies
    thru the stars.

Paul Cameron Brown