Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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Horseshoe Fall and Goat Island Seen from Table Rock by James Hope-Wallace. Goat Island.

Stop and smell the roses, or at least stop and imagine the smell of the unidentified flower in Alexander Wellington Crawford's poem “To a Flower (Found Some Years Ago at the Foot of Goat Island, Niagara).”   http://niagarapoetry.ca/2017/12/01/to-a-flower/ 

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170 years ago, in 1847, Henry Howard Brownell published a book imaginatively titled “Poems” In it was the poem “Niagara” See it here  http://niagarapoetry.ca/2017/11/27/niagara-henry-howard-brownell/

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Niagara Falls by Alan Dugan

We saw it all. We saw the souvenir shops, and sitting on the mist above the falls, the brilliant signs saying hotels to love in, cigarettes to smoke, souvenirs for proof; we give you anything you want, even towels. Our disgust was as stylized as billboards, and we suggested to ourselves that even our sympathy for the ugly people of the off-season was outworn. But here it was, nevertheless, the ferocious, spastic enjoyment, the hotels like freight-yards or packing crates, the lights that murder sight, and the community snicker. The falls, of course, continued with great dignity.

Source:  Poetry,  April 1947,  p 12.

See the poem on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project site at http://niagarapoetry.ca/2017/11/06/niagara-falls-alan-dugan/

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Untitled by Martin Durkin

Amongst the vineyards

She sounds continuous tambourine loud celebration of sight drowning hell and giving heaven vacant space

We drive and drive around tourist inside his homeland Ontario viewing it first at 23 and now 5th visit at 26.

the seasons submerge forging unison

Here the beauty female is born as we stare snap photos and take chances on the betting machines

Each day it pulls the provinces closer together drawing strangers to drive and stand and glare at this bowl of white mist with a playing marching band hidden below it all

Source: The Author, 2005

See on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project website at http://niagarapoetry.ca/2017/09/20/516/

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Niagara by Father James B. Dollard - Niagara Falls Poetry Project

A spiritual poem describing Niagara Falls in relation to classical historical time periods

Incessantly thy waters thus have rolled    Through the dim aeons of unmeasured Time,    While God was fashioning His work sublime, Or ere His sulphurous forges could grow cold! When Egypt loved Osiris and retold    His charmed birth from out Nilotic slime,    When Chaldea read the stars, and Homer's rhyme Was yet undreamt -- Niagara thundered bold. So night and day throughout coverging years    Hoarse voices rose above the hissing spray        Scaring the lonely Indian on the shore! These bellowing chasms harbored nameless fears --    Demons and dragons in contorted play        Lashing the frightened waters evermore!

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Loretto Convent, Niagara Falls by Father James B. Dollard

Loretto Convent, Niagara Falls by Father James B. Dollard

Loretto Convent, c1910

I look below; Niagara’s torrent white Is eager hurrying to the dread abyss; I hear its thunder as the waters hiss Over the awful brink, to plunge from sight In seething spray! Confusion at its height Is pictured there; but even on convent walls The radiant glow of even gently falls And all is harmony and holy quiet! Like some blest soul on Heaven that ever dreams, Bending its chastened look beyond the skies, Regardless of the tumults of the world; So, crowned with peace this cloistered abbey seems, And on its peerless heights serene doth rise, While deep below the raging floods are hurled!

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William Kirby  by Fisher Davidson

In old Niagara town, long aisles of ancient trees Stand sentinel along the storied ways, Tall, sturdy patriarchs of other days, Whose busy leaves are ever whispering memories. And one there was who walked beneath their arching shade: True, gallant type of Christian gentleman, He, faithful, passed the full, allotted span Within this hoary town whose cause his own he made; And always at his side there moved a shadowy throng: Simcoe and Brock and noble Addison, All who with axe and plough and sword and gun, Laid firm its deep foundations that have lasted long, All who, sojourning in this place, did love it well. He was like to the Roman Livy, he Who loved his town and ever strove to be Worthy its great traditions and its annals tell. So let his country keep his memory one pure sheen, And bring him, there beside the ivied wall, Beneath still other forest-veterans tall, French whites and English roses, ‘twined with Maple green. >

See the original on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project website:"William Kirby"

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Sons of Adam by Patricia Borneman Dagle

Sons of Adam, watch!

Thundering clouds over the roar of a thousand nights smashing water spilling mist on ancient rocks.

Tremors beget the moving form created to carry men in God’s direction yet,

Sons of Adam, Listen!

Building the Tower of Babel dumb in spirit yet brilliant in designing a god to themselves

In the midst of futile human endeavor stands a mighty warrior, an ancient ghost “Onguirahra! Noss oossima!” tall, courageous believing in a power greater than that which was created

Sons of Adam, look!

On mighty rushing wings He raises his spear and with one fell swoop brings down the concrete rocks.

and the river rises up to greet Him moving faithfully forward with the thundering power of the falls.

Peace is restored and a tree planted by the river reaches its roots out and grows among men’s ashes.

while the warrior rests beneath its shade. And is refreshed in the cool depths of Onguirahra!

Source: The author, July 8, 2001.

See the original on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project website:"William Kirby"

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Visit of the Prince of Wales to Laura Secord by Sarah Anne Curzon

(Chippawa, 1860) Now wherefore trembles still the string By lyric fingers crossed, To Laura Secord‘s praise and fame, When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one, Have Borne her from the day When, fired with patriotic zeal, She trod her lonely way. Her hair is white, her step is slow, Why kindles then her eye, And rings her voice with music sweet Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada, With joyful heart, enfolds In fond embrace the royal boy Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer, And tells her happiest tale, And leads him to her loveliest haunts, That naught to please may fail.

And great art thou, O Chippawa, Though small in neighbours‘ eyes, When out Niagara‘s haze thou see‘st A cavalcade arise;

And in its midst the royal boy Who, smiling, comes to see An ancient dame whose ancient fame Shines in our history.

He takes the thin and faded hand, He seats him at her side, Of all that gay and noble band That moment well the pride.

To him the aged Secord tells, With many a fervid glow, How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do, A weak and idle thing That at that moment Laura loved The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile, And kissed his royal hand, Who represented, and should wield, The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch If not at greatness‘ shrine? And whence should approbation come Did not the gods incline?

Source: McCabe, Kevin, ed. The Poetry of Old Niagara. St. Catharines, Ont. : Blarney Stone Books, 1999.

Originally published in T.H. Rand, ed. A Treasury of Canadian Verse. 1900.

See the original on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project website: Visit of the Prince of Wales...

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The Brittle Branch by Philip J. Curtis

She walks alone this night, No longer fearing nocturnal birds. Superficial days and existential nights, Too many Form 4s for her flights.

The sun rising, The moon just right, The tourist season Not over quite, The way she Might have planned it. Finally, a bath of mind, Her turn in line, PCBs and feces too, This time.

Didn’t complain, They said there wasn’t Another way. Desiring one With the icy art, Best she could do, Was an unfelt lark, Trapped in the immensity Of the existential trinity: Cold flowing steel, Bold turbine wheel, No-essence meal.

But she’ll be content With the stability Of her new-found therapy, The last Valhalla, Where strange attractors Lose bifurcations And computers crash, Drowned by an unknown fist Of greatest mist, Returning to the place Of phase space none, Not surviving her space Of haze, race, nun.

It was cold, And the icy creatures Mocked a fractal joy, The roar and poise Of the secular trinity Seemed a little hungry.

Many more like her Have visited The brittle branch, Cat-like in Winter Star and sun, Alive and dead In Schrödinger fun.

Broken frozen figurines, Fallen from their shelves, Drowned in the mist Of a melancholy twist, Bouncing cry-eyed Into the rocky tub, Bouncing wide-eyed To the bottom’s hub. So cold a tumbling, To the sea.

Like her, the bloody bobs Counting tourists’ ticks, ‘round and ‘round The rocky tub, Click, click, Are not on the screen; For the Trinkers And Shrinkers, Pulp Pushers and Rhinos Have made their deal for steel, No one to know Lost dot bobs for real; Measuring success By the number of Polymorphs of nymphs and dwarfs Still on the screen.

Those who knew her Have lost her, And have poured Their own eternal mist. The rest will be leaving soon, For the latest seller, Or the signs of the moon. Please get ready, We’ll all need a room soon.

Until the parameters are tweaked, And the densities just right, Multicoloured and bright, We won’t hear the Humanist drummer tonight. Until the old texts Have seen the young forced players’ Superficial smile For existential layers, Thousands more birds May fall a long mile.

Good-bye our friend, Thank you for singing So bittersweet; You may have saved Someone on the street. But for now and for you, The Trinkers and Shrinkers, Pulp Pushers and Rhinos, Have lost a friend too.

With humility and hope, Perhaps ten score hence, The Witch may catch the bypass, And the cash may catch the pitch; Flooding virgin tears Into all our ears. But waiting for the song To sign cast-laden legs, We weep weed-laden heads.

Philip J. Curtis,  August, 2001

See the original on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project website  http://niagarapoetry.ca/2017/03/17/brittle-branch-philip-j-curtis/

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Niagara, Seen on a Night in November by Adelaide Crapsey

Niagara, Seen on a Night in November by Adelaide Crapsey

How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumnal, evanescent, wan, The moon.     Source: Adelaide Crapsey. Verse. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1922.

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For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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Niagara in Winter by Susan Frances Harrison ("Seranus")

Niagara in Winter by Susan Frances Harrison (“Seranus”)

Nor similes nor metaphors avail! All imagery vanishes, device Dies in thy presence, wondrous dream of ice! Ice-bound I stand, my face is pinched and pale, Before such awful majesty I fail, Sink low on this snow-lichened slab of gneiss, Shut out the gleaming mass that can entice, Enchain, enchant, but in whose light I quail. While I from under frozen lashes peer, My thoughts fly back to take a homeward course. How dear to dwell in sweet placidity, Instead of these colossal crystals, see The slender icicles of some fairy "force," And break the film upon an English mere!

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For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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Too near the falls by Virginia Conn

Too near the falls by Virginia Conn

We used to joke about honeymooning here, be home in time for dinner at my mother’s every night. But only if we could play movie stars, arriving by train under a canopy of thick gray celluloid smoke. I’d even marcel my hair. We’re here now on a whim.  A drive without anticipation, almost detouring into the mall at the last minute. We forget to open the windows after customs, until the sound thuds…

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For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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At Niagara Falls by Anson G. Chester

At Niagara Falls by Anson G. Chester

In the Maytime, at Niagara, As a Sabbath morning broke, Full of glory, peace and beauty, From his dreams the sleeper woke. All was quiet, save the thunder That forever there prevails — That, throughout the gathering ages, Never pauses, never fails. But the thunder of the torrent Of a sudden died away, Just as if a spell of silence On the rampant waters lay. For a robin, at the casement, Trilled its carols sweet and strong,…

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For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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The Niagara Fall by William Ellery Channing

The Niagara Fall by William Ellery Channing

Tis the boom of the fall with a heavy pour, Solemn and slow as a thunder cloud, Majestic as the vast ocean‘s roar, Through the green trees round its singing crowd; And the light is as green as the emerald grass, Or the wide-leaved plants in the wet morass. It sounds over all, and the rushing storms Cannot wrinkle its temples, or wave its hair. It dwells alone in the pride of its form, A lonely thing in the populous air. From the hanging cliffs it whirls away, All seasons through, all the livelong day.

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> For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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Signor Farini by Ian Bell

Signor Farini by Ian Bell

“The Great Farini” on the tightrope, 1860. High overhead at the peak of the barn, A ragged tin rooster is raising the dawn; Along with the creature of curious grace, Who takes his position and rests in his place, And then with the slightest of smiles on his face, He raises a foot and steps off into space. Chorus: Oh for an ounce of the courage I lack, Oh for the feel of the wind at my back,...

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For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project

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En Route to Niagara Falls by Bill Cattey

En Route to Niagara Falls by Bill Cattey

I’ve been to Niagara Falls For a Gay Science Fiction Convention. While I was there, I kissed a guy I’m hot for In front of the tourists. Beautiful guy. Beautiful falls. On the way there, Something even better happened. After making my convention plans, I got a call. A friend I had a crush on Wanted some help Moving back to town for the summer. I gladly made the detour With its promise Of time…

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For more poems of Niagara visit the Niagara Falls Poetry Project