Toronto

    Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse with Diamond Eyes.
    A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and two Persian
    lions carved in wood.
    Salads Nicoise.
    Dinners at Pré Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto equivalent.
    A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal in the forest.
    I drank a cocktail with the girl of the white polo coat.
    Or as the cynic said, my pipe is the tent, the tobacco
    the days of my life.

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 Nightlamp

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

The World Of Dying Love

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Sleigh Bells

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Godiva

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.

Toronto

In Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a theme
or at least end in "S". It's an unspoken rule. In-spots
(notice the "S" again) recall the Lost Generation:
Garbo's, Hector's, Lucille's; though less thematically
inclined imbibers can indulge at plain sounding
Sammy's/Charlies...

The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcaps
which more than suffice: while those seeking purity in
their draught can take consolation at the common
Brunswick or Molley's.

There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.
While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the Kon
Tiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middle
of the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys,
Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in the
lush decor of Hemingways or, in the obv...

Paul Cameron Brown

The Jolly Tupper

    Sun on the eiderdown
    breaks tiny corners off the bedspread, declares green plants its bidding
    before summoning Fragonard's maiden
    off her swing - so richly dressed
    in picture from the sunlit wall.

    Expensive tabac from an imported humidor
    etches tiny leaves
    their stems as faces against the glass,
    rich aroma, trèsor, like the Jolly Tupper print
    preparing his bowl,
    drawing on the clay stem
    as if from a height watching ships come in.

    Smoke cold as blue fungus over outside buildings
    follows horses with hooves to split cobblestones
    stuck in the city's eye,
    more than mountains around
    the stone filled ravines
    of the rich man's heart.

Paul Cameron Brown

Colette

    The waitress mainlines
    the cup under the saucer
    balancing it on the
    waistband of her arm
    much as a junkie
    might tie a tourniquet.

    Wiping the glass edge
    of the table
    clear of croissant crumbs
    & watching the barely dry
    reflection of her own
    image going thru the emotions.
    the California chic
    pothouse & gardenia
    bloom effect of
    her work is enough
    to leave a dirty smear.

Paul Cameron Brown

Blackamoor

    Breaking up -
    as in the cloissoné jar you dropped. . .
    little regard,
    a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.
    Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?
    There's always another humidor tucked away in
    the cranny of another antique shop; after all,
    a woman is only a woman
    although a fine, Cuban import
    is a worthy smoke.

    "What this country needs is a good 5¢ cigar".
    Panatellas?
    He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.

    Nooks & crannies.
    Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)
    as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.
    No season of regrets, rather
    snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.

    Who knows?...

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

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