Kindling

    As a matter of fact,
    ovens do carry a glazed stare,
    fireplaces are wont to parry
    thoughts to kindling
    before their stoop and
    on breathless summer nights
    one is hard pressed
    to recall cinder and
    blackened barleys any more
    vegetatively than upon
    these harridan pots.

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 River Cuts A Channel

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Skootematta

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Village Idiot

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

The Spoken Word

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.

Pyromania

    She had a fireplace -
    the sexual kiln
    of her pyromaniac
    desire,
    a brick embedded in heat,
    white hot coal to ember,
    her lust flaring red,
    soot to powder
    dark as charcoal
    smear, a walk
    across shimmering mirror.

Paul Cameron Brown

Metaphor

    There is a star near
    the hinge of planets,
    a barn under
    a cow's lick of moon -
    plausible people
    moving thru an
    airless universe.

    Pay attention to the frond of lilac
    . . . limestone troughs upon which
    thickets of Indian scalp &
    devil's paintbrush soar
    to the horizon
    and, afterwards,
    little creeks run
    with the sparrows of evening time
    in step to tiny boatmen
    that echo enamelled snails
    from the very consonants of earth.

    Rustle of leaves,
    some might argue
    breathless gasps
    to intone the savagery
    of little seasonal voices
    cut off
    mid-stream.

    A spate of bees,
    early colonizers
    deflo...

Paul Cameron Brown

Imagistic

    There in the cosmos -
    white dwarfs launch a black rooftop
    imagistic, clean as a pantry,
    the twilight roads with ledges lean
    like raw openings.

    And coming upon stars
    in a country woodhouse
    - cold, big as frozen pears,
    each breath of light visible
    thru chinks & clusters
    of broken ceiling wood;
    hands raw & nipped sawing logs -
    breath menacing the depths
    on inner space, something pale
    and profoundly suggestive.

Paul Cameron Brown

To Sit Arrayed

    To sit arrayed
    and task consumed
    by the edge of a window,
    the world as fire
    stepping free of winter's stain,
    jutting fingers of light
    to a basement ledge
    then allowing their
    foggy movement to
    displace dust's circle
    as it has come
    to be known
    over the last
    five months,
    is to come as
    near as possible
    to the brink
    of private
    sanity.

Paul Cameron Brown

The Crowkeeper

    "She gallops night by night through lovers' brains...."

    I see grindstones in the sky,
    pots of tulips overturned
    - big tug of the reins
    and chestnut hair
    is seen before the windowpane
    with chance & more chance lost to
    frost or hungry bees
    this still autumn eve.

    Darling,
    walls that division us
    are envelopes of passion
    bridging trust, seal it
    lest it rust.

    Skeletal scrapings
    make for poor bedding
    (this poor rhinoceros of lies)
    the devil gliding about so disguised
    on his tentacle and toenail chair
    (inviting lair) or is it
    hiccup and bandaged prayer
    yet stalwart wall is a rosary bead
    thick ale and bread to hungry snail

Paul Cameron Brown

Trinkets

    My mind a buzz saw,
    wood chips in decapitated thought
    soil chilblained hands

    II
    Cleansing wood,
    the keen smell of sawdust
    - good, raw earth drenching
    the nostril, clean odour
    of nature like my brain,
    a broomstick sweeping
    the coffee pot speaking ...
    bubbles massed in steam
    inchoate in their pensive rivulets.

Paul Cameron Brown