Tuesday Poem – Cornwall, Ontario (Laurice Gilbert)

Given my recent travels around Canada and, in particular, my weeks spent in Ontario, ‘Cornwall, Ontario’, written by the talented poet Laurice Gilbert, struck a familiar (almost homely) chord with me and begged me to share it. Some poems just do that, I find. You read them, and they resonate with you, and no other poem will do for the coming week. They swirl and gather speed in your mind and come to you in the oddest places – a couple of words, a line. I think this reflects the talent of the poet – to capture something that induces others to feel compelled to share it. It must be what we all aspire to. It is often the smallest nugget that ensnares you, and for me, it is Laurice’s description of the ‘gopher’s eyes’ of the basement windows. Fabulously put. I can see it perfectly.

Laurice first read this poem at a New Zealand Poetry Society (NZPS) meeting when they had an ex-pat Canadian in the audience, who later confessed that ‘Cornwall, Ontario’ induced quite a spell of homesickness. Laurice tells me she was touched, and I think she should be.

 Franklin Carmichael (Group of Seven member)

I was in Ontario just, just before Halloween, and Laurice was in Ontario merely a couple of days after – isn’t it wonderful when poetry paths cross?

Cornwall, Ontario

Snow bites the air, but not yet the ground,
and all day the geese have delta’d overhead
shouting each other directions,
navigating by stars I don’t recognise.

There is no footpath, and I walk
between the road and the ha-ha
on bald autumn grass.
Here, the cars keep right.

The houses have basement windows
peering at me from ground level
like gopher’s eyes.

Halloween lights like icicles
outline entrance doors,
their owners impatient for winter.

Organic and plastic Jack-o’-Lanterns
occupy front lawns
in pre-loved clothes and wicker rockers.

There are ghosts in the windows
backed by the flickering blue lights
of Saturday night entertainment.

Only the last gravel driveway
in a progressive neighbourhood
helps me find my way back
to familiar territory.

This is Ross St in November
and the house of my hosts
echoes the unfamiliar stars, the bald grass,
goggle-eyed gophers, square-eyed ghosts.

Posted here with the kind permission of the poet, Laurice Gilbert.
Originally published in InterlitQ, Issue 14.

For more Tuesday poets and their poems, please visit our Tuesday Poem homepage and browse through the sidebar. This week’s editor is Bernadette Keating, who has posted some Lyn Hejinian – I’ve always loved that image of ‘sea glass’ in My Life. Do dip in and try some Hejinian, she elicits both praise and head-scratching – a wonderful combination.