"fountain" named Poem of the Week

"fountain" which first appeared in wordcurrents on March 16, and was redrafted and posted on April 12 in a new version in WILD Poetry Forum, has been selected as Poem of the Week for the week of April 14 in Wild. The version of the text posted in Wild is different, and appears below. Here follows the text of the proclamation at Wild, posted yesterday.

Please join the administration, staff, members, and guests of WPF in congratulating Douglas Hill on the selection of his poem "fountain" as Poem of the Week. You may follow this link to the Hall of Fame to familiarize yourself with Douglas' work. What most appealed to us about Douglas' poem is his very unusual choice of subject matter and the fine craftsmanship of this poem. Douglas gives us many strong images to visualize and with this poem, proves that any subject matter can be poetic in the right hands. The final line is both touching and evocative. Thanks for sharing this one here with us Douglas. We appreciate the chance to recognize such an excellent poem.

Our Honorable Mentions have quite a variety of subject matter to offer you as well. In no particular order, they are:

"Monarchs" by Sarah Sloat
"A Dear John Letter to Zeus from Hera" by Brenda Morisse
"Restless" by Laura Ring
"Horse in the Yard " by M. Kathryn Black

What an excellent line-up of talented authors and we count ourselves very lucky to have their work gracing our forum. Our thanks to all of them and all of you!

Fountain

I spiral down the spit-fountain
in my father’s dental boutique:
stare into the circular drain,
spitting, hoping it is almost over,
his gentle hands wielding mysteries
of pain and precision and finally relief.

Now, leaning back in a hard barbershop chair,
I wonder if the same company made
both scrolled fantasies of wrought iron
and black leatherette—a place to fix
your hair your teeth your smile.

The mortar sang a soft tuneless rhythm as he
deftly urged it against the pestle, mixing
the silver-mercury amalgam I would years later
pay to have replaced by less poisonous acrylic, then
we would share a moment of bonding closer
more intimate than anything else in our lives:
his soft warm fingers in my mouth.

slow show

I wrote this poem November 20, shortly before we left on our trip out west. That seems so long ago. I have revised it significantly form the original draft: the last line in particular has been a subject of some sport for me. The tree in question (see photo to the right) is the tallest in the centre of the city, some eighty feet, I estimate. It is much taller than it appears in the photo; I used auto stitch to join two photos of it that I took a few moments ago. note how the photo tapers at the top. The tree seemingly taller in the foreground to the right is actually considerable shorter, if you consder that I was shooting up at quite an angle for the top of this. In years that huge murders of crows flock to the centre of the city, they seem to focus over that tree, often filling its branches as prodigiously as the leaves. Local tree firms are hesitant to consider pruning it, so large and dangerously close to property is it. I wonder what the future holds?

The snow poems

I have started writing a series of twelve poems that I call The Snow Poems. They are based on a found poem that I discovered, listing the eleven Inuit words for snow. I have known about the list for some time, but when I saw the list, it struck me that it is a sort of poetry in its own right, hence the found poem. I have printed the list in the intro at the top of the page on wordcurrents.

I have found the writing of this series to be a trip down memory lane for me, because I grew up in the North, where there was really a lot more snow and cold than I experience in Southern Ontario; for example, I can recall walking a mile and change to school with my sister, who was in grade four at the time: the temperature was fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit below zero. At that temperature, your breath freezes right out of your lips. Your tears freeze on your eyelashes. You have to keep a scarf or your hand in front of your mouth so the inside of your mouth does not freeze when you inhale. I delivered the mail one Christmas vacation in my hometown of Kirkland Lake while I was in University: the warmest the temperature got each day at noon was thirty four degrees below zero, Fahrenheit.

Ah, the good old days.