Pelée

    1

    The night before ...
    sultry Martinique, a
    tortoise shell cat
    climbed, lap to pipe,
    amid curbs of orange smoke.

    2
    Mount Pelée, a
    smoking hard hat
    with the candle-wax of longing
    gutting in paraffin for
    30,000 souls sent to the Crematorium
    her harbour hissing
    lava foam;
    even coffee beans fused into
    other metal bits, a
    danse macabre twittering machine,
    (nature au contraire),
    tortoise shell improviso with
    splotched colours weaving dawn's light
    & feline crouching.

    3
    - the curl of her island's paws
    lanced in heat,
    brief wisps tugging Pelée's
    synopsis (dark & smouldering), with
    cat eyes glowing
    up the mountain dark
    into vegetative whiskers.

    4
    Pull of my pipe full leap of centuries
    before the bite of the stem
    dumped fire again

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.

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English

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Pelée: May 8, 1902

    With the smile of morning
    in her purse,
    the dark laughter of her
    cat napping
    in the crevice, half-alert,
    Martinique (angelique)
    on padded paws
    climbs from night.

    I saw her hair-brush
    the lava to warm the bay,
    crinkle little St. Pierre
    jammed into one
    parking lot, volcanic embrace.

    In the little museum
    - the holocaust cenotaph -
    Nature pared essentials to the bone,
    a cauldron of smoke
    peers from old photographs
    to cement (danse macabre)
    bric à brac ivy/stone and
    coffee beans wedded
    in grandeur
    fission-fusion-froideur
    resembling masses of bees,
    grotesqueries & beards
    upstaging even Miro & the dis...

Paul Cameron Brown

Picaroon

Scouting the sun
thin clouds threadbare vests
barely to cover the horizon.
the heat or the day, canine,
a hot tongue's intensily
splashing yr face.

The docks are quiet,
prawn trawlers unloading gear
gar fish at the surface of the water
echoing little fins like
tiny waves green
into the shallows.

Bubbles anchor the lagoon    -
changing rivulets into sand
stone walls numbered in shards of glass
trade universal currency
but, beware, the proprietor
cobblestones up to his door,
a candle in the window-stoop,
a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.

Come the picaroon.
Spanish adventurer
lesser known rogue, thief
a smile like piano keys
huevos sent back.

I've seen the parfumerie
the snake pit,...

Paul Cameron Brown

Pastiche

    These shell-queens, too,
    are blithely catpaws,
    shorn & musky acorns with
    indexed fingers erect
    at manicured attention.

    II
    ... Showboats with green faces far as swallows fly,
    a lilac in oasis ... scarlet bream
    ... blue ointment where the ocean is
    periwinkle patches,
    a robin's egg clarity pressed
    between blue-nosed tavern wall
    & bottles clinking.

    III
    See plush cords,
    the suede interior
    svelte & slinky
    an upholstery simonized
    with natural springs where
    bubbles encounter founts
    in apertures, the rich measure
    of open ground or mezzanine curtain
    slit along a riverine walk
    & jungle clearing.

    IV

Paul Cameron Brown

Moonrock

    She wears a cat encrusted T-shirt
    & panties with L*O*V*E
    guarding the Paradise door
    & when balm of night
    casts shadows,
    her face is moonrock
    distant to mysterious
    down storybook crags;
    her darling form cloaked
    in twilight garments
    of an inky earth.

    Gates of Venus,
    . . . as if feline whiskers
    whispered, wan cat eyes
    in amber dark glowed pale honey
    in alchemy or blur of soft movement
    was caress to stars' elopement
    with the sky.

    This woman summons fire,
    stokes furnaces to quicken parchment leaves
    of flame-thick desire,
    honed soft on ripples
    skin tones were curvaceous
    drift of oars, vivacious breast on buttock's

Paul Cameron Brown

Cuando-Cubango

    1

    Moths, if they dream dusk,
    sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings -
    gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,
    traverse caravans of colour
    amid silk-routes
    to dazzle Prester John,
    cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.

    2
    Compte de la Mothe
    escadrilles/flotillas
    D'Entrecasteaux
    with Bougainville discovering
    well, Bougainvillaea and I,
    latter day la Perouse,
    cunningly amuck on coral
    adoration and wine,
    (red as scarlet leaves)
    chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
    of the flame-bitten tropics.

    3
    Let me scandalize why.
    Watch the sea churn
    to white bubbles then coat
    your nostril with brine
...

Paul Cameron Brown

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