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 Fathom 2007

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Kirby Best (3)
Michael Da Silva (2)
Jean-Marc Prévost
Heather Ingram and Alana Paul
Eli Burnstein (2)
Chris Rice
Benjamin Mitchell (2)

Prose

Amos Sarrouy
Vincenzo A. Ravina
Jesse Hilz
Ashleigh Gaul

Artwork

Alex Picot-Annand

[PDF]

Benjamin Mitchell

 

 

Ode to a Canadian Quarter

Remembrance coins with faded faces
Plead with fickle memory,
Remember me, remember me.
Through dark posterities embrace,
Remember me, remember me.

No more for dead men’s eyes are we
The motley fools of currency.
Bought hard with life,
Bought hard with death
Good buy, they say, Good buy

Then voices muffled by the clang
Of daily life’s economy
Remember me, remember me.
Silenced in idolatry

We never warn the aged ones
When old is sold to gain the new
Good buy, they say, good buy

But life is saved with memory!
Remember me, remember me.

Goodbye.

 

A Dirge for Sir Irwin McCool

In the land of Zoink, Sir Irwin stirred,
quixotic with his regal gaze.
     Waiting, waiting, and
watching
across a dreamscape of aqua skies,
with colours blurred.

The blue grass below swam the planes,
a more or less alive, living ocean.
His mind was set, peril or death,
this was his quest, his duty, his one devotion.

Indigo pumpkins clung upon the precipice
in purple patches, that first brink,
the final draught of which
an innocent soul may drink.

Sir Irwin McCool, brave and goodly,
just and fair, Sir Irwin McCool,
face the monster if you dare.
Face these vile vicissitudes
oh, most noble sir,
for our kingdom needs a knight.

Fatefully that fearless lord
Sir Irwin McCool, brave and goodly.
     Watching, watching, and
          waiting no longer,
mounted his most loyal steed and friend
Duke Racherban the 22nd.
And so, prepared for any hurly burly,
the unjust world could cast
about him on his daring journey
that got him in the last, 

he left. He could not stay.
There are things that drive
a knight, and send him,
onwards and away.

And then, behold confusion!
Amidst that tangled patch
of twisted brambles, pink, blue and red.
The creature raised a murderous spectacle,
the kind that all the poets fear with dread.
And the ensconcing dew of innocence,
with all the hope of youth’s embrace,
did melt, for then it knew,
it had no home, no peace, nor place.

Sir Irwin McCool, brave and goodly,
just and fair, Sir Irwin McCool:
     Alive, alive, then
          living no longer.
The creature struck him from his course
not with claws, or gnashing teeth,
oh no, much worse.
Defend yourself Sir Irwin McCool,
brave and goodly, just and fair,
Sir Irwin McCool!

“What do you think you’re doing?”
the creature cursed, “That’s not right at all.”
It shamed him with his secret name,
and in it was something, which he could not explain:
The start of the fall, of Sir Irwin McCool.

“Pumpkins are orange, skies are blue,
grass is green, is that the best you can do?
And what is this mess of red, blue, and pink?
A nettley swamp you say?
Looks like nothing I think.”

Sir Irwin McCool, Sir Irwin McCool!

Just a pretender, Sir Irwin McCool?
What of the castle, the princess and hope
to save all the kingdom, was that just a joke?

“And what is that blob there, so sickly and white?
Duke Racherban the 22nd, a valiant steed?
Looks more like a nag, hardly fit for a knight.
And where is your kingdom?”

With a great and grizzly thunder clap,
the skies putrefied a sordid green,
the once blue fields, charred to black,
and the purple pumpkins rotted away.

Farewell, most unfortunate knight!

   Sir Irwin McCool,
     brave and goodly,
     just and fair,
   is no knight at all
   but actually Brian,
   a young boy in school,
   who learned to stop lying.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul