Three Poems by Alison Calder

New Work

Listen to Alison Calder reading her work.

Large Animal

When I hiked up the mountain, the elk were down in the meadow,
and when I walked down to the meadow, the elk were gone.
Some days are like that: might as well nap,
or tear the blank page into a dozen pieces.
Might as well call old boyfriends,
or pen my obituary.
Some days a large animal is off in the distance.
I should be happy to see it, even there.


What is the way that the blue-green backs of the swallows are pieces
of the distant, downward river, above which
they make their quick and decisive sweeps?

The swallows fill the air.
They fill the air with the river.


In the twilight, witching hour,
a white heron turns a darkening pond
into a fancy cocktail, burst of white
delicate as a swizzle stick, a chive blossom,
a girl stepping out for the first time
in a slim white dress.  White ladder,
white bell ringing:

against the freeway’s husk,
white, white.

Post a Comment

Your email address is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>


Alison Calder

Alison Calder is the author of Wolf Tree (Coteau), which won the 2008 Aqua Books Lansdowne Prize for Poetry. She teaches Canadian literature and creative writing at the University of Manitoba.