About the Author

Brian Bartlett

As a high-school student, Brian Bartlett was invited to join the Ice House Gang, so-called because they met in the University of New Brunswick's historic Ice House every Tuesday night to read their poetry and hone their talents. Amazed and delighted by Bartlett's gift for words, Robert Gibbs, Bill Bauer, Kent Thompson, and Alden Nowlan inspired him to become the accomplished artist he is today. He published his chapbook Finches for the Wake when he was only 18 years old. The next year, Brother's Insomnia was published as a New Brunswick Chapbook. Since this apprenticeship period, Bartlett has published six highly acclaimed collections: Cattail Week, Planet Harbor, Underwater Carpentry, Granite Erratics, The Afterlife of Trees, and Wanting the Day. His poetry has won Two Malahat Review Long Poem prizes, a fellowship to the Hawthornden Castle International Writers' Retreat in Scotland, and first prize in the 2000 Petra Kenney poetry awards. A talented writer of prose, Bartlett's essays, stories, and reviews have appeared in Books in Canada, Canadian Literature, The Fiddlehead, and Brick, as well as Best Canadian Stories and The Journey Prize Anthology. A native of Fredericton, New Brunswick, Bartlett spent 15 years in Montreal, studying at McGill and teaching at Concordia. Today, he teaches creative writing and literature at Saint Mary's University in Halifax.

Books by this Author
Branches Over Ripples

Branches Over Ripples

A Waterside Journal
tagged : essays
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The Watchmaker's Table

The Watchmaker's Table

tagged : canadian
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Wanting the Day

Wanting the Day

Selected Poems
tagged : canadian
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Red Fox

Red Fox

also available: Paperback
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Earthly Pages

Earthly Pages

The Poetry of Don Domanski
also available: eBook
tagged : canadian, literary
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Dangerous Words by Don Domanski

little by little the thistles suffer on the hill

bare trees enter the river

the wind takes the earth and blows

it drop by drop into your ear

you are ashes mixed with rain and sleep

leaves rustling in a closed hand

a mouse dropped out of a cloud

dangerous words pass under your window

words that no one has ever used before

you follow them into the woods

your find three words building a fire

one word skinning a rabbit

and another word far off in the shadows

pissing on a violet

what do they have for you

these five elves these little men

this little sentence in the forest?

they have but one knife between them

one hat one coin one pot

and a dark bag full of spoons

what good are they to you?

what can they give you

that you don't already have?

if you touch them

you touch a hanging bell

and a small tongue wakes in the grass

to speak to you to give you a name

to call you tulip or pincurl

or doll's breath

which means you'll never see

your home again not your parents

or their love

which means you will always whisper

but never speak

never escape these little men

these words burning their supper their rabbit-water

in an iron pot.

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The Essential Dorothy Roberts

Three Girls


The woods suggested it, the forest of urges,
And we undressed and walked among the leaves
To let the skin release its impulses
In little starts and pleasures lighter than real.

The delicate touch of woods checking the current
Between the flesh and world was most to be trusted
Of all the possible ways of coming to be
More than the personal triumph of the child.

Leaves, fronds, stones, mosses, brooks, tendrils and flowers,
I thank you for the delicacy of those hours
Letting the impulse out, the shower in
Of quick cool contact and the bars of sunlight.

Into the forest vanishing for persuasion
We found the dusky place and golden haven
Fern wand and cedar bough gradually gave-
Still is all lover's touch partly of leaves.

From a River Boat

I saw out the open doorway of the hold
the river writing a page
line on line this is a way to read

Here it seems that to move
through wrinkles of running water is to be all we need

The sun is not shining the wind
is only enough to set up little waves

To be absorbed in this writing in this silvery word
is to by-pass identity it has seemed
to be all the way composed
in a quiet meditation obliquely told

Look too at the water to see an outlook of history
a written page flowing along into fresh impulse
here charging the surface of words the silent and spoken records
and the wind turning the lines into another outburst

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