Plums & Vine

    Plums and vine (as the Atlantic is green)
    intone the heavy church wall
    with errant sprigs, so Heaven sent
    they are big with earthly passion
    racing for the sky.

    Madonna Poverta in her midst
    with the pulpit clutching Light -
    so gnarled, like bush, that each crevice
    reeks with stone
    all stooped under such worldly avarice.

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

Chance Upon

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Orifice

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Embers

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Skootematta

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Shamrock

    Is there anything prettier than that -
    to stare into your manifold spaces
    toward the hook & vine
    of cathedral leaps,
    the vaults & crypts
    as go-betweens of an earthy worship,
    the supine female form?

    By quiet pools,
    thrush in the thicket
    with red berry behind its eye,
    miniature sun
    proceeding by the branch
    to undress the bark
    with leaves as
    passionate culprits
    kissing dark.

    Clasped hands
    upward lies the sky
    my masterpiece angel,
    I bite lush meadows,
    tread spongy brooks,
    endear daring small of back,
    crevice taste nape and neck,
    a beatific pilgrim nearing
    a fleshy way-station,
    first charting his co...

Paul Cameron Brown

Leaves Of The Cecropia Tree

And what of privileged things
mur & frankinscense
or sandlewood    -
yes, teak, ambergris
or skies of indigo blue
-    I cite these gifts,
caravans offered as treasure
Christopher Wren putting
the domes of St. Paul
in place like worn spectacles
over a cherubic face.

The last gargoyle pops in sight
near Notre Dame
such cathedrals are whitened sepulchre
stones in "stately
pleasure domes
decreed".

I see the Taj Mahal
where Mahatma Gandhi might have trod.

The utterance of a tulip
in every parable Christ talked;
rosebuds gleaming milk
on the breath of lilacs
their shields of lilies
shone where Solomon walked.

Song of Songs is none other
than the poet's heart,
water across stones.

Paul Cameron Brown

Unpaginated

    Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky
    clouds slide like billiard balls
    a Jackie Gleason-Fats Domino
    ricochet off greener velvet;
    my pheasant escaping snow.

    Jack Ketch the hangman
    in brilliant plumage,
    a touch of Borgia in
    long, murderous hands.

    The light of Capone in
    steeple-dark eyes
    running like a
    haunted ship
    around the white, facial disc.

    Offset. Bold type.
    I see you through pages
    of my history book
    only you're unpaginated.

    Unclench the fist,
    watch for effervescent islets,
    erotic mounds of Venus or
    protuberances called Marquesas
    off my left hand.

    Omens are the cloth
    of dreams, scissors

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

The Monastery.

Beyond the wall the passion flower is blooming,
    Strange hints of life along the winds are blown;
Within, the cowled and silent men are kneeling
    Before an image on a cross of stone,
And on their lifted faces, wan as death,
I read this simple message of their faith:
            "The trail of flame is ashen,
                And pleasure's lees are gray,
            And gray the fruit of passion
                Whose ripeness is decay;
            The stress of life is rancor,
                A madness born to slay;
            They only miss its canker
                Who live with God and pray."

Beyond the wall lies Babylon, the mighty;
    Faint echoes of her songs come drifting by;
Within there is a hymn of consecration,
    A psalm that lif...

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Ancient Of Days

    It's Epsom but could pass for Epping,
    New Forest or Dumbarton Wood.

    There's ivy of the thickest
    English sort not commonly
    found in America; sprigs
    growing across open ground
    mantling it.

    Shiny to the eye, soft encircling
    the touch, I am reminded of blue waters,
    green grass Blake's Ancient of Days:
    an old man's beard stepping from the trees,
    Spanish Moss so unearthly it covers a
    southern forest.

    There are tendrils in herbal potions of unbroken lips that move
    across both dew and clover.

    I see Druids reciting psalms, weaving ivy along garlands
    of oak, the incantation set before a British lake -
    briar baskets carrying the trusting dead;
    food offerings tran...

Paul Cameron Brown