Creative city

Creative City
By. Pier Giorgio Di Cicco

To look, and not avert one's gaze;
that is where all the art is, the passion
and the city. people who do not look,
cannot see canvas, or poems or
notes for
happiness.
art does not begin with art,
but in the eyes. the eyes are everything;
when you look up at another,
and look away without a smile,
you have killed
everything you want to
bring home, oh citizen.

comments on Kelly's poem

I came upon this man one day
Quite flushed as he did come to me
He yelled, a place we shall soon go
With cold, fierce bears, strange talk we’ll see!

With bears, you say, what else is there?
My word, I’ll tell, need not to fret
The winds, the snow, with more I think
No fruit, they’ll eat whale fat I bet!

Your right, dear friend, no yum for them
A house of ice where ‘nucks are born
Their schools, absurd, teach a to zed
Big great igloos I could have sworn

When ice does melt, the whales go dry
Despite the ice, the snow remains
For all these meals they’ll eat flapjacks
So much syrup I’d go insane!



Young man, where lies this cold dark place?
This pic does seem just north of here
You’re nuts, photos, postcards, that’s all?
Foolish, I say, you’ve never been near!

Flurry of snow (sensory poem)

Flurry of snow
By. Elisabeth Jang

The dead tree, hard rock,
Cherry tree, apricot tree, and maidenhair tree
Can bloom soft magnolia

Benches are empty for a long time
Lonely, cold, and unattended
The snow hugs them, soft and warm

People become a walking tree
Attracting white flowers to head and shoulders
Walking around the city of white

Explore the four seasons (viator forns)

Explore the four seasons
By. Elisabeth Jang

The seasons change our lives
New lives are coming up from the deep and dark world
They feel heavy in the dark, they need warmth
Flowers open their beauty.

Earth is going to be hot
The seasons change our lives
This time is good for water sports
This is the best way to get out of the hot air.

If autumn comes, I want to leave the darkness
Although nobody waits for me, my mind opens to the blue sky
The seasons change our lives
I hope to visit colourful mountains.

There is a hole in the sky, snow is falling down and deep
Children sliding down the snow in a sleigh
Children’s laughter is still ringing on and on
The seasons change our lives

Canadian identity

Harmony
Elisabeth Jang

Different appearance
Different skin colour
Different language
Nothing can make a gap between us

Different cultures made one country
Different cultures made one identity
If different cultures are a tree,
Understanding cultures are a forest

We are not different
Our appearance keeps us separate from each other
We are one
Our soul keeps us in harmony

Night Train to Zagreb

Night Train to Zagreb
George Ellenbogen

When gusts spread against the glass
on the Orient Express to Zagreb
snow separates in alphabet,
the vowels clinging to glass,
consonants slipping into drifts.

It must be this way for the howl
to flatten a summons against the pane,
the moaning against the arms
of night pushing it beneath
unbroken meters of the train.

Inside one hand reaches for coffee,
the other sleeve reaches the table
armless, turning in circles
like a pendulum raising questions
as the train turns through the foothills.

It was a Serb. Or was it a Croat?
who came out of a night like this
with candlesticks, something in a bag
and she was there, something
between the doorway and road

or was it the bedroom and kitchen?
And he lowered to her as if
to leave something behind, a kiss
or something more memorable—we
always misunderstand—and her arm

was in the snow, possibly on a night
like this with less to understand
than ice caking on glass
over a broken toothed moan
in alphabet that never shapes.

The Word on Cootes Paradise

The Word on Cootes Paradise
Jeffery Donaldson

The Word on Cootes Paradise

The bay was called Cootes Paradise after
an Englishman named Coote. A foot-wide path
loses the last, stone-grey, staggered roof-tops
with a casual turn and does not fold back

until across the break it stands in clear
prospect of Arcadia. Below the hills,
the thumb of a small lake might seem to press
(from where a passing coot circles above)

into the soft dough of the wood, rising
on three sides around it, lightly crusted
and browned by the November fallen leaves.

The pond-side gathers debris like tea-bract
at the brim, glinting ciphers from the stirred
duff and sediment that I have come to read.

A sudden night frost has dropped in the bay
a clear, brittle patina, an ice-skin
that puckers on the water, where the coot
now circles down, goes out and prints its name

with dibbled steps in the snow and flies off.
That sheen over the bay's black element,
for a while, will brace the morning's flurry
where it fell, and rose winded like cold down.

But by noon the ice will have long darkened
to lake-blues, and the mild light will sop up
the nervous, scrawling, dotty signature

of our English migrator, long gone,
who anyway always made it a practise,
so the word goes, not to walk on water.