Irish-Canadian poet Lesley-Anne Evans, writes from Feeny Wood, a contemplative…
Previously displayed and published for the Ryga Arts Festival exhibition “Inspired By,” April 2018.
My grandparents kitchen was indelibly turquoise
their laminate countertops hosted black currant jam parties
berries picked, cooked, poured into paraffin topped jars
then plunged into hot water baths to save them
their laminate countertops hosted black currant jam parties
they drove an hour for butter from the Stony Creek Dairy
then plunged into hot water baths to save them
their house knew them in the dirt cellar he dug by hand
they drove an hour for butter from the Stony Creek Dairy
they grew beefsteak tomatoes, and seed potatoes,
their house knew them in the dirt cellar he dug by hand
and the walls held their sadness when she couldn’t walk again
they grew beefsteak tomatoes, and seed potatoes,
she cheered for winners each week on Roller Derby
and the walls held their sadness when she couldn’t walk again
Grandpa hung clothes on the line, ignoring the dryer
she cheered for the winners each week on Roller Derby
we sat in lawn chairs and laughed at call-in radio
Grandpa hung clothes on the line, ignoring the dryer
she met Haystack Calhoun at a local gas station
we sat in lawn chairs and laughed at call-in radio
Sunday supper was roast beef tender as a woman’s heart
she met Haystack Calhoun at a local gas station
I never heard them mention renovating to keep it current
Sunday supper was roast beef tender as a woman’s heart
we hunted dew worms, and fished in the Grand River
I never heard them mention renovating to keep it current
he built her a wheelchair ramp up to their front door
we hunted dew worms, and fished in the Grand River
Grandpa said interesting things with his hands
he built her a wheelchair ramp up to their front door
he grew an Old Man cactus high as my shoulders
Grandpa said interesting things with his hands
it takes a lot of years to watch cacti flourish
he grew an Old Man cactus high as my shoulders
their house is still there, though the farm is long sold
it takes a lot of years to watch cacti flourish
we found trilliums and arrowheads in the cool summer woods
their house is still there, though the farm is long sold
the hungry world arrived, in time, to taint us
we found trilliums and arrowheads in the cool summer woods
their laminate countertops hosted black currant jam parties
the hungry world arrived, in time, to taint us
and we plunged into hot water baths to save us.
Irish-Canadian poet Lesley-Anne Evans, writes from Feeny Wood, a contemplative Christian woodland retreat in British Columbia, Canada, and her home. Her debut poetry collection “Mute Swan, Poems for Maria Queen of the World,” was published by The St. Thomas Poetry Series (Toronto, Ontario, Canada) in 2021. Lesley-Anne has been commissioned to write libretto and lyrics for both opera and cantata. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in the periodicals The Antigonish Review, Barren Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, Ekstasis Magazine, and Soul Lit. Journal, among others. When she isn’t writing, Lesley-Anne loves to wander in the woods with her lovely old dog, and to hunt for objects of beauty in thrift shops