New Garage



It used to be the chicken shed
But the weasels and hawks killed them all.
Too small for the old car but the Suzuki fits,
One wall morphed into a door and it’s ready to go.

My cat inspects, looks at me suspiciously.
“Where are the ones who smell like this?” she seems to say.
“You ate them, didn’t you?”

No, dear cat, it wasn’t me.
Hawks by day, weasels by night did them in.
See, here in the corner one white feather,
Left behind as a memorial for their handsome struts
And bright red combs, now so sadly gone.

Let Me Make This Perfectly Clear



Let me make this perfectly clear.
I have never written anything because it is a Poem.
This is a mistake you always make about me,
A dangerous mistake. I promise you
I am not writing this because it is a Poem.

You suspect this is a posture or an act.
I am sorry to tell you it is not an act.

You actually think I care if this
Poem gets off the ground or not. Well
I don’t care if this poem gets off the ground or not
And neither should you.
All I have ever cared about
Is what happens when you lift your eyes from this page.

Do not think for a moment that it is the Poem that matters.
It is not the Poem that matters.
You can shove the Poem.
What matters is what is out there in the large dark
And in the long light,
Breathing.

Gwendolyn MacEwen  1941-1987, Canadian Poet