Poets, Dead and Alive

Well, this doesn't have anything to do with the title of this post, but as promised, here's a scrappy scrap of Our Igloo practice, circa July 2005:

-- No longer here, as more current sound files took precedence. --

Did anyone else see that Bob Dylan documentary by Martin Scorcese that they showed on PBS in two parts? We watched it last weekend with Johanna, and it was really good. We were kind of missing commercials, because we kept wanting to start discussions about it but had to pretty much keep our mouths shut for four hours! Very inspiring, though. And who knew he could speak so coherently? Almost like a normal person.

I don't really have anything to say today, so I'll give you a poem by Alden Nowlan, one of my favourite poets, who was born in Nova Scotia and grew up in New Brunswick, and to whom our friend Jeff turns out to be vaguely related. He's dead now. Alden, not Jeff. A question period and crumpets will follow.

- Andrew

Canadian January Night

Ice storm: the hill
a pyramid of black crystal
down which the cars
slide like phosphorescent beetles
while I, walking backwards in obedience
to the wind, am possessed
of the fearful knowledge
my compatriots share
but almost never utter:
this is a country
where a man can die
simply from being
caught outside.

- Alden Nowlan, 1971