Cherish the Day:
16 Canoe Poems for Summer
By Lenny Everson
Illustrations by Lois Foell and Lenny Everson
rev 2
Copyright Lenny Everson 2011
For Dianne, my paddle-partner.
This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.
Cover design by Lenny Everson
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List of Poems
Come and Share
Avoiding a Portage
I Have Crossed Landscapes
Only a Light Beyond the Ridge
Hot Afternoon, Long Grass
Sonnet for a Very Dry August
The Downwind Dance
On a Cartwheeling Planet
Summer is for Love
But, Oh! So Few Julys
June
Like Butterflies, Like Butterflies
Night Thunderstorm
Sonnet for June
To the natural buzz and bite of June
If We Were Free
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Come and Share
Come and share the wind with me
The night is full of tears
On the last portage, we'll find
Our footprints on the years
Come and share the night with me
Warmth on warmth in dark
When the wind shakes the tent
You are fire, I am spark
You are fire, I am spark
Against the tears of night
In torch and touch and sudden flame
To reach, then hold on tight
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Avoiding a Portage
With but one portage to go, he said
Let’s go up the creek instead.
You gotta be kidding....
We stomped on trout and sank in muck
We pushed logs, pulled logs, and straddled logs
The canoe went over, under and around logs
We sank, swam, sloshed, and cursed
Before we paddled away
But we saved a portage
Brainless bozo! I wonder
If we can plan another trip.
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I Have Crossed Landscapes
I have crossed landscapes
And am proud of it
Pushing a red canoe on a July lake
Pausing on a portage, by a swamp, the frogs
Hesitating, lapsing into silence
I have waited out thunderstorms
And have gone on, the flat-rock trails
Alive with deerflies
And do not regret it
Oh! I would not like
To be God, always knowing
What's behind the next violet hill
Or when
All the loans of time
Come due.
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Only a Light Beyond the Ridge
It was nothing, I tell you
The wind in the aspen tops
Some dark cloud that lied about rain
Some terrible silence of the cicadas
The tamed man’s doubts returned again
The canoe too heavy on my shoulders
The ground underfoot, moving a bit
The hill, the hill more steep than I had seen
And I, almost afraid of it
Sometimes in August, on the first portage
Moving out of civil ground
Only a glimpse of aspen, lake
Separates lost from found
Only a promise in wood and stone
And light beyond the ridge
Changes a portage from an endless trail
And makes, of it, a bridge
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Hot Afternoon, Long Grass
I have longed for you
Among pastures turned to gold
Where the turning river
Measured summer growing old
I whispered your name
In the lengthening of day
In the heat of afternoon
With rapids in our way
On a wild-tree island
Between the nodding reeds
Footsteps traced desire
Returning of our seeds
For the rolling earth below
Runs molten at its heart
And so I burned, and burned again
Till we fell apart
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Sonnet for a Very Dry August
Around the bend, the river hasn’t changed
Under August skies the river bed
Grows smaller yet among the boulders ranged
Upon the promised land, still ahead
Slippery still those stones which show some green
Moving slow, we lift the old canoe
Rock by rock to reach some pool unseen...
I read the map - the part we’re at shows blue
Very far behind we left one car
Endless hours ahead the other waits
Rolling crazy cricket cries surround
Dry fields, and those who haul canoes too far
Rebuke with laughter he who calculates
Yesterday’s rain upon tomorrow’s ground
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The Downwind Dance
To the downwind dance and cabaret
Of August wind and sky
To the sunshine ballroom of the lake
Came my canoe and I
We waltzed on tumbling whitecap wave
Bobbed past shoreline tree
Pirouetted when an island swell
Whirled us to its lee
To the great applause of aspen leaf
We rolled to granite shore
Quickly bowed, then made our way
Out the portage door
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On a Cartwheeling Planet
In a madness of moonlight I tore from the tent
And caught all things in their tumbling flight
Pine-barbed eastern hills dropping hell-bent
The west storming up a ladder of night
Cartwheeling around a now-hidden sun
Pushing up through galactic dust
Tilting towards Virgo, tumble and run
In a maelstrom of starlight turning to rust
Blood pumping, frogs jumping, the trees in a sway
The air sliding fast, the lake rolling slow
Clinging to a rock, up, up and away
Out across nearly nothing, blindly we go
A frog on the canoe saw my bug-eyed expression
Croaked at the slithering night and the stars
Dismissed my panic, announced his secession
From mad canoeists and intellectual bazaars
On that hot August night I crawled back to my cave
Carousel, tumbleweed, rider and ride
No thrill, no poem, no song of the brave
Just one wondering mind looking out from inside
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Summer is for Love
There were clouds folding sheets in the skies up above
And branches entwining in the trees
Waves caressed rocks, murmuring love
Your dark hair tempted the breeze
There was a long afternoon by Seven Mile lake
Rocks growing warm in the light
Carp rolled in the lotus out past the point
The glare, on the water, too bright
We found a long channel at the end of the bay
Left the canoe pushed into the reeds
Climbed the hill, hands furrowing bushes
Our feet carelessly scattering seeds
&nbs
p; The butterflies danced in the soft honey light
The flowers pressed down to the ground
The planet tumbled willingly, slow as the day
Around
Around
Around
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But, Oh! So Few Julys
The little waves like passing days caressed
The bow of our canoe. The land so old
That we felt young. I fished, Dianne slept;
The heat and the summer sun spread out like gold
The necklaced loon then called to question why
We stroked his lake and chased his silver prey.
I pulled my lure from out the shadowed deep!
Did we belong to the lake and smooth-rock shore?
But then I laughed to tell the loon that I
Was wild as wind and here like morning cloud
And gentler on the darling lake than he
Nor had I need to call my summer truth aloud
Too many lakes, beneath the summer skies
Too many lakes, too many lakes, but oh! so few Julys
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June
I was wind
Rippling water
To the shore
I was the budding leaf
New this year
To the lake to the trail
I was the sun
Yellow canoe traversing the lake
East to west
I was a day in June: in my canoe
I was a day in June
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Like Butterflies, Like Butterflies
So we tumbled across the landscape!
Dashed the riffles, poled thru reeds
And came to camp, like butterflies -
As gently as maple seeds
So we turned the canoe upside down
Tented on a moon-born rock
Our shadows, and the shadows of trees
Were hands in a landscape clock
And sunrays bronzed the summer hills
Painted us July
Till the rolls and tolls of thunderstorm
Sketched charcoal on our sky
That night the pines touched jewelling stars
Bass happened from velvet deep
We slid the canoe on granite pillows
And, in wonder, fell asleep.
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Night Thunderstorm
The fire’s down to an ember by now
The tent flaps open to encourage a breeze
I’m almost asleep in the long July night
When a rumble of thunder rolls among trees
Flashlight? Flashlight! My boots and my hat
Lecturing myself once again
Chucking some goods beneath the canoe
Feeling the first drops of rain
“Always assume that it’s going to rain”
I’ve had the rule drilled in
But I’m out here doing my flash-dance again
Lessons dripping off of a glistening skin
Dry myself off, crawl over my stuff
Zip the windows up tight
Pledge to restructure my before-bed rules
And wish the thunder goodnight.
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Sonnet for June
Mosquitoes, at daybreak, I take in with each cup of tea
I breathe them, I eat them, I brush them from off my skin
And they take their turns, while I pack up, and fill up on me
But out on the lake, there’s only some loons and the wind
On shaded portages I’m ambushed by blackflies all day
They chew at my ankles and gnaw at my wrists and my eyes
They crawl down my neck and they swim in the sweat on the way
But out on the lake, we’ve got me, my canoe, and blue skies
In the evenings, the deerflies come cautiously circling in
To land on my bald spot or tear at the back of my knees
While I put up the tent, they make off with chunks of my skin
But in the dark on the lake, there’s only me, and the stars, and the breeze
Canoeing the northland is part of the life that I choose
But in June it is clear to me why they invented canoes!
****
To the natural buzz and bite of June
To the natural buzz and bite of June
I donate my blood for free
And give, on the portage to Ragged Lake
Some better parts of me
Ecologically, I rate
Reasonably high
Many fed and darned few squished
(Despite a thoughtless try)
Some part of nature’s inner peace
My heart takes home, I guess
My soul inspired, my body weight
Just a little less
In honour of National Blackfly Month
I do my noble part
And, autographed with polka-dots
I graciously depart
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If We Were Free
If we were free
Of time and due
Then you and I
Might never canoe
If life were long
And had no end
There’d be no call
Of river bend
If we never had
To age or die
There’d be always tomorrow
Or next July
A bit too warm
Or chance of rain
We’d find ourselves
At home again
Paddle long, my love, and
Do not dwell
On the gentle sound
Of distant bell
Cherish the day
Sun and rain
Tomorrow may not
Come again
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Commentary
Come and Share. A camping poem for a dark night when Dianne and I are in a tent on cold rock, beside dark water and a forest behind as dark as all our fears. And above, the sky stretches upward to infinity. When the wind comes up and the tent shakes, we reach for each other.
Avoiding a Portage. I had a good idea what the route up the little creek would be like. But an adventure is an adventure, and I was tired of portages, too, on this trip. So I took Al Daigen's suggestion. We did figure out why other people took the portage instead of trying to canoe up the little creek that linked the lakes.
I Have Crossed Landscapes. I really like this poem. It reminds me of a solo trip into the wilderness north of Peterborough. At then end of a portage, I could see a summer thunderstorm coming, so I put up the tent, stuffed the pack under the upturned canoe, and went to sleep. When I woke, the sun was shining again, and I went on.
That day, there were two lakes I’d never been to, only two more portages in. The first portage was a short one, and it took me to a small lake that, for some reason, I didn’t like.
The next portage (which I took without the canoe or pack) was almost unmarked, but a compass kept me going the right way. It took me to a larger lake, with no sign that anyone had ever been there. That lake was dark and mysterious and I promised myself I’d come back to it someday.
Only a Light Beyond the Ridge. A portage into a lake that has existed, for me, only on a map, is an adventure. If the lake is off the normal routes, there’s a little thrill of apprehension in my heart.
Sometimes I become a little too aware that I’m only a stranger in the woods, passing through.
Hot Afternoon; Long Grass. When you canoe in summer, there’s an erotic touch to the landscape. You can almost hear Pan playing his pipes somewhere in the bushes.
Sonnet for a Very Dry August. The Salmon River, running into the Bay of Quinte near Napanee, looked like a good bet for a canoe trip. A nice blue line crossing the landscape. A day’s paddle downstream. We learned about maps, and alvar landscapes, getting canoes over fences, and how to hop from boulder to boulder without dropping the canoe more than once a minute. In mid-afternoon, Vance jogged back to get
the car we’d left at the beginning. I’ve done that again, since. It’s nice how much shade you get on a canoe trip when you’re carrying it.
The Downwind Dance. When people ask me about my canoe poems, this is the first one I think of. Most crossings are upwind for some reason, but sometimes you do get a tailwind. I remember a smallish lake, a tiny island made of a split rock in the middle. I aimed the canoe for the split and sailed through. The poem’s a metaphor for a dance, of course. The “bow” in the last stanza is merely me bending to put the canoe on my shoulders.
On a Cartwheeling Planet. When you add up the rotation speed of the Earth, its speed circling the sun, and the sun’s relentless barreling around the galaxy, a man who thinks too much can get a little shaken up. Especially when he realizes the sun never sets – that’s just the western horizon tilting up….
Summer is for Love. When you add up the rotation speed of the Earth, its speed circling the sun, and the sun’s relentless barreling around the galaxy, a man who thinks too much can get a little shaken up.
Especially when he realizes the sun never sets – that’s just the western horizon tilting up….
But, Oh! So Few Julys. Actually, I’ve always felt this sonnet was a loser, except for the last two lines. But I liked them so much I kept the poem. Maybe I should have kept just the lines and added a picture.
June. This is just a happy poem about canoeing in June. Up above, Apollo is riding his sun-chariot across the sky. Down on the lake, I’m riding a small yellow canoe. Brothers.
Like Butterflies, Like Butterflies. A poem about the way a summer canoe trip should be.
Night Thunderstorm. Another camping trip in the Kawartha Highlands area. I’m such an optimist, or maybe just spotted-hound lazy.
To the natural buzz and bite of June. Blackflies hatch out when the first blossoms appear on the wild apple trees in May. By June they can be a torment, crawling into ears and eyes, and hovering as a cloud around your face. In Canada they carry no disease except madness. Or, for a canoeist, more madness.
If We Were Free. Possibly the best poem I ever wrote. Or at least in the top ten. Memorize it; you can use it in a thousand places in your life.
This is one of six books of canoeing poems:
Cherish the Day: 16 Canoe Poems for Summer
Fierce and Fine and Free: 18 Canoe Poems for Spring
Fireplace and Wine: 15 Canoe Poems for Winter
What Last Golden River Run: 17 Canoe Poems for Autumn
No Ordinary Waters: Canoe Poems from a Strange Mind
Canoe Songs
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