Beached on Haida Gwaii

Norma Kerby sent me this gathering of poems after celebrating the launch of filling Station's northern BC writers edition in Terrace last week.

Beached on Haida Gwaii

in Hecate Strait, winds can blow over 150 km per hour

shallow waters waves tower more than 10 meters high

in Hecate Strait, any boat is a toy for the winter storms

           

Months after Randy Morrison spent eighteen hours in the frigid waters of Hecate Strait

building Randy Morrison with eighteen hours of torture in Hecate Strait

                                    W.C.B. ruling suspended  his claim

                        legs   in pain    skin burns from salt in stinging spray

                                           a doctor claims it's in his head

but they will be appealing        Randy Morrison           through shifting

            apparitions of bearded men that shout from boats of

            cold emulsion oil and ice like frozen drops of

                                            Caribbean sherbert lime

shipwrecked

lady at the store said

            he drove the boat full-throttle into the beach

                                    that or drown he told the insurance company

but in town they all know

buybacks and lack of quota

make fishing like wishing        to win the lottery

                                                                           beautiful lines       all wood

                                                                                                she fills with sand each tide

                                                                                    lists to one side

                                                                                           beached

excised

in the fast cold sweep

                                    of the flying wind

nightmares are flung into

                                                irrelevance they

            tumble off across the dunes so quickly there is no time to say goodbye

else

            do not be angry

when i say that i love the wind

                                                it was only that i would

                                                            fly

                                                                                    like a gull

                                                                                    hung suspended in the storm though

there was a gale

             wind so strong i

                        could not move but

                                                behind the dune

                                                a flock of seagulls

                                                waited

too windy even for them

soupfin shark

the shark had thrashed

a hole in the sand

                                                caught by the storm and

                                                falling tide

                                                it died in the

                                                sun

long bullet body

crescent slit of razor teeth

white skin scraped pink

                                                in cold north waters

                                                so odd

                                                a beast

                                                the currents sweep

                                                from other shores

glass ball

there

                                                                        caught between two cobbles

                                                                                    green glass

                                                                        base of a fishing float

            long journey from Japan bobbing across on foamy rollers

                                    winter storm     glass ball

                                                                                    smashed against the rocky shoals

                                                                                                pulverized to crystal sands

                                                except the bottom          dimpled where

                                    the master paused

                                       drew in his breath before he blew the           perfect bubble

                                                            emerald

                                                                     it glistens

                                                     green as cold Pacific waters

scallop

it was only a

                                                            tiny shell

                                                            pink and finely fluted

fairy scallop we called it

not knowing how such a                                  delicate

                                                            wing

                                                            landed on the cobble beach

in the gloom of the office it sits

on

the window sill

speaking of                                          winds so fierce

                                                            there was nothing but

                                                            the land and the ocean

                                                            fighting

Tlell

there are dunes

shifting dunes

                        moved by winds so wild

                        you lean

                                                a triangle into the frenzied

                                                fury

                                                waves curl back in funnels there are

dunes

with feral cattle

ancient village sites where once the

Haida raced before the storm

                    before the smallpox came

village on the shore

living on the fringe of the ocean

                        knowing that the edge of

                                    the sky    is the edge to

                                                    the other edge

                                                    of the ocean

N. Carol Brown - an anniversary

Prince Rupert's N. Carol Brown writes:

 

it is almost a year since I attended the Joint Review Panel in Prince Rupert. Since that time I have helped edit The Salmon Recipes book, which is having great success, and I feel that I have contributed to the movement to keep the north and ocean Oil Pipeline and Tanker Free. I revisited a poem that I wrote then and thought I would send it on to you. At the time I was very angry with the government of Canada and felt nothing deserved upper case letters except the original native concept of village. My hope was that readers would understand the concept and that maybe the people on the panel would hear the hope too, and revisit the vision of a village for our whole country.

Written for Presentation at the Enbridge Joint Review Panel, February, 2012, Prince Rupert

(Kanata is an aboriginal word meaning village or settlement)

i stand before you to bear witness

that the best minds of four generations

will express their love for this northern land

in canada : Kanata is

land/settlement/village

from the beginning

all that is expressed, all that is uncovered

whether beautiful, barren, bestial or disordered

honours this land, its people, its exploration and discovery.

respect the past, pioneers of the future.

love the land, air and sea, the rivers in between.

this land is not a political party, a race, religion or corporation.

be not an opponent of this land and its living celebration.

i am one small voice in the wilderness/city

joined with others i become a herd,

a flock, a migration - one echoing symphony that travels,

savouring  mountaintop,  valley and ocean,

only pausing a lightning strike in time

to rest on the waterways of our future.

n. carol brown

Congratulations to the BC Home Team!

The Super Bowl is played in a matter of hours. The residents of BC have been fighting to have their voices heard by the Joint Review Panel for many months.

Some wonderful person tallied the results from the JRP community presentations and we're pleased to announce a winner - of the 1161 people who made it through the complicated process to speak, only two spoke in favour of the Enbridge proposal.

Thanks to all the people who did speak - your stories and understanding and knowledge - your hearts are on record.

Bravo!

Sacred Headwaters - Skookum Wawa

As the oral statements at the so-called public hearings of the Joint Review Panel wrap up, we all need a little encouragement to overcome the depressing spectacle of locked doors and police officers surrounding this increasingly bizarre process. On Feb. 2, communities of the northwest will be gathering in Terrace to celebrate the withdrawal of Shell's plans to drill for coal bed methane in the Sacred Headwaters. Congratulations to all of those who worked so hard to pull this off - and thanks for all you're doing to help fight this next threat to the last wild salmon watersheds in BC.

When Ali Howard was swimming the length of the Skeena to draw attention to the threats Shell's plans presented, I wrote this poem to celebrate her achievement. Those of you from points inland might need a bit of background for the Chinook terms. I grew up on the south coast of BC where Chinook terms were commonplace: The ocean was the salt chuck; the wild rapids near Egmont on the Sechelt Peninsula  are called Skookum Chuck, which means powerful water. In 1975, Gary Geddes edited a collection of writing about the northwest, which he fittingly titled Skookum Wawa - powerful talk.

Skookum Wawa

 

Mountains.

Green meadows.

Spring grizzly grazing

in water welling through rooted sedges.

Waiting water

meanders until flatness finally falls,

falls in three directions.

Water becoming:

becoming Spatsizi, becoming Stikine, becoming Tahltan

becoming Nass, becoming Nisga’a

becoming Skeena, becoming Gitxsan, becoming Tsimshian,

the ancient submerged heart pumping

            oxygen

            salmon

            life into this land.

Bright children leap laughing

to fall, to follow,

to trace in faith one great artery on its way

into the wide arms

of the salt chuck.

Chinook talk

their talk

skookum wawa.