Pogrom

There is an unhurried resemblance to pain, here,
this Fiddler on the Roof commodity, potables, fine oaken chest
for one and furs; but wait,
the Czarist police are busting up the place    -
a program is having its desired effect
on our emotions, the wine cellar smashed
as tears are falling like bloody heaps
in the red snow, cuttersleds
carting off the sundry feelings
we've invested in, a relationship
already staledated two years old.

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

Woodsy Backwoods Poem

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

The Sandpit

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Perhaps

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Living Room

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.

Pillage

    It's chess of sorts but
    reeks of you -
    the hand carved emerald rook, for one,
    and so many Black & White squares
    that tiptoe like many a patio stone
    between our warring minds.

    I think of rollaway mats
    lepers use to beg on,
    habitually to die on
    or marked cards that
    outside castle walls
    dicers' oaths
    must originate from.

    I am having trouble
    keeping the pieces straight.

    I mean, you're White
    & concluded the beginning of the end
    with first move; still, I'm prepared
    for nothing short of winning.

    Should we discuss this
    growing stalemate near
    the Bishop's mitre
    and exploding gun
    or against hungry faces of exp...

Paul Cameron Brown

Slaughterhouse

    You're the aggressor
    and your passion exceeds mine
    but we're in this slaughterhouse together
    and it's near closing.

    Vats of prickly ointment
    destined to repattern animal skin
    and tubs of steaming formaldehyde
    rest casually with the more antiseptic
    thrill of green sawdust.

    Blood is a chameleon, here, changing colours
    en route to sausage and Pram but
    my hotdogs and donuts are
    holding better to the cuttlefish
    in this unnatural forest.

    The stars are a jangle of planets
    in a world where wood became noise;
    each ceiling beam, incidentally,
    is the wrenched out spine
    of a Longhorn steer,
    doorknobs pig knuckles
    bound for Octoberfest fear.
    Ev...

Paul Cameron Brown

Water Fast (The Pearl Fishers)

    Shopping in their heads
    - a man a pair of shoes
    right colour (tan, off-white) shape -
    only good physiques need apply,
    degree, tall;
    self-confidence a "must".

    Not yuppie, really,
    more consumerism as in
    I made the grade (she really
    thinks this; meanwhile, she's
    plump, dull).

    Standing in the showroom window,
    she spies the mirror image of herself.
    Your attitude is your altitude.
    Of course, he's "polished"
    (tho' not worn), urbane
    witty - this goes without saying.
    Well-travelled, maybe, though potential
    liability, here, suggestive of footloose.
    Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts
    of hedonism - a dangerous portent.

    Feel I've stumbled ba...

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

High Roller

    1
    Terrorism -
    left-wing nerd (twin
    grapefruits in his hand
    gives it away)
    winging a stiletto shoe,
    spitting on an ashcan
    to bring up a bruise or two.

    2
    Visions are steadier -
    I see in the shimmer
    blue veins to target,
    a silhouette of the rich,
    fur wraps in their Bentleys
    time to bring up tar,
    kick ass in Knightsbridge
    with my holiday bomb blast.

    3
    Bag snatching can be dangerous
    let go if you don't want to be
    dragged over cobbles behind a Vespa.

    4
    The Harrod's sign, "please keep
    moving" meant business.

    5
    Pretoria calls as does Manila.
    Later, perhaps, Jerusalem, Beirut,
    Rawa...

Paul Cameron Brown

The Gathering Of Dead Wood

The gathering of dead wood - driven,
pinched in faces between
the strain of Van Gogh's setting -
had all the more realism
hastening down that leaden street.

Churning sockets, burdened with the duress of suffering,
the street in vigorous winter
raced like a bootblack
up from the river. Hedged by
black stems called trees, rows
of withered houses and dim bread shops
propositioned rough headlights
along a promenade of ice stalks
and careening streetlamps.

Fast in the cold,
faces were juggernauts
skating treacherously
over the pond of that closed city.

Paul Cameron Brown