Poems by Chad Norman

chad poetryChad Norman’s poems have appeared for the past 35 years in literary publications across Canada, as well as a number of other countries around the world.

He hosts and organizes RiverWords: Poetry & Music Festival each year in Truro, NS., held at Riverfront Park , the 2nd Saturday of each July.

In October 2016 he was invited by the Nordic Assn. for Canadian Studies to give talks on Canadian Poetry and read from his books at Borupgaard Gym in Copenhagen, and Risskov Gym in Aarhus, as well as other readings in both cities and Malmo, Sweden. Because of that tour Norman has started the manuscript, Counting Coins in Denmark and Sweden.

His most recent books are Selected & New Poems, from Mosaic Press, and Waking Up On The Wrong Side of The Sky, from Grant Block Press, and a new book, Squall:Poems In The Voice Of Mary Shelley, is due out Spring 2020, from Guernica Editions. Presently, he is also working on another manuscript, The Black Rum Poems.

He has done readings at various Eastern Canada venues in Kingston, Ottawa, and Montreal. And in the Fall of 2018 Norman will undertake a speaking/reading tour of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, as a celebration of literacy and Canadian Poetry.

His love of walks is endless.

 

Four Poems from Squall: Poems in the Voice of Mary Shelley

 

ELENA, 1820

Mary lying in the sand;
a small sealed box on her hip
Sometimes I hide myself for Death
like secrets or an injury–
what day could it possibly be?
The sky & its blue are without a cloud,
cruel how it makes a way so soon
pulling a shadow on the nervous water,
like the memory of my near-drowned Shelley,
desperate, never so lost, yet successful
at keeping such a child news for others.
Others, the hidden circle for his letters,
held out by obeying a request of silence:
Must we ever speak of this child?
If so, may our dear Mary sleep in secrecy.
Such a child said to be of several wombs,
the ephemeral charge meant to churn mine,
a womb only months over the birth of a boy
I, like a cunning woman, released to rituals
known as breath, life beyond the age of three.
Three, mask & lies & mishap, Shelley let them
alter his ego, in the abrupt style of a deed
our insistence for Truth tore open at once,
still daring & unbelievably agape on this day.
He looks up from the sand where my finger
has stopped at the end of a smile I’m sure
such a child could call her father’s, but
my finger resumes, leaving them for the sea,
the tide’s first tired and maternal wave.

NO OTHER HEAVEN, 1812

 

Mary turning her back to the sea;

a small sealed box balanced on her palm:

 

 

Thinking,

apt endless venture,

curse or courage?

 

We were young before we met.

Before, as his early thoughts

asked about the Age,

about discrepancy,

that between the will to do good

& the power of doing so—

an Atheist’s theory.

 

We were of no age

outside of a number.

Outside,

sitting apart,

under the sky’s options,

a number of stars

to lead one to God,

or beyond

to Mab,

his hated fairy,

the queen he let reign.

 

“Doing good” never a strange notion,

within his reach,

closer to the hand,

he thought was possible,

when he advocated

increasing the human power,

                             men’s knowledge, then

there is no absolute need for Heaven,

or an afterlife.

He thought about us doing good.

 

How unlike my planted mind.

There is no other Heaven.

I say this knowing joy,

knowing I say words in favour of

that which is beyond the mind,

the men, their hands

waiting in the poor depths of pockets,

or held shut

by the inescapable sense of

a trusted prayer.

 

I gaze at the edge of Italy,

unable to forget

we shared all

we dared to,

the effort holy,

enough.

THE CHOICE REVISITED, 1814

 

Mary kneeling in the surf;
a small sealed box under a wave
And little of life
becomes light enough to let go!
Quite, yes, quite easy
to exasperate the sea:
I know it knows
I intend to toss back
the moment
I stepped into his carriage
unaware of
the white hours
awoken for us,
eager, too eager,
to lead the future forward
to the flow of sights
foraging in my mind,
aiding his bright grip,
his eyes’ confident ache,
the love-led tug I saw
seat our dreams to dare.
And little of life
becomes light enough to let go!
To quit the jeers
looming on London’s tongue
we nodded,
three isolated faces,
three wild pupils,
setting off the whip’s triumphant crack
as dawn confirmed
the choice to explore
the edge of the Continent;
run with him
running from the one long charmed
by the constant loiterous option
Suicide offered,
flooding her gravid body,
her eyes’ endless vigil
the inexorable glare I watch
in this inhuman water.
And little of life
becomes light enough to let go!
Compared to any river
how the dawn did soothe!
We clapped as the clement sun
grew like a blessing
the kind window
keenly formed on the carriage floor,
a slow white shaft
warming our fated shoes,
& the defiant smiles we donned
before a bump shook
my mind back to Skinner St.
where father slept
without her,
the daughter I had left to him,
when at Dover we
drew up a will for the Past.

AFTER READING THE 3RD CANTO OF BYRON’S Childe Harold, 1817

Mary hidden behind a boulder;
a small sealed box on top of it
When the excursions made thought
seem last
and needless
the Intellectual rose rested
in the evening’s crawl
–is the Summer’s forever,
forgotten,
more to memory’s pace,
how the mind displays
life dimming to dream?
In a furtive year
after pain felt new
and yearnful
the comparison began
based on the body’s cracks
–is the Woman’s wider,
longer,
due to love’s trust,
how it supplies her heart
with instant answers?
All this escape
I blame on
dear ecstatic Albe !
Few have the scenes of
his smile kept for greetings;
I relive the lake leading
our early easy boat,
how the shore held still
with his vivid welcomes.