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Winter Cranes: Poems
Inspired by a group of herons resting near the author’s home towards the end of a long and difficult winter, this collection of poems employs the crane—the symbol of longevity, immortality, and good fortune in Asian folklore—as its dominant image. Questions such as How do we make sense of our lives? and What is the role of the imagination, art, and place in shaping our vision of the self and teaching us how to be human? are explored using unabashed lyricism and a wry, philosophical style. Winter Cranes demonstrates Chris Banks’s ability to be an uncompromising poet, determined to understand his experience of a world constantly changing around him.
64 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 1, 2011
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
November 24, 2012
I took a brief introductory poetry workshop with Chris Banks of Waterloo ON at Storywell's workshop series (storywell.ca)and it was surprising how much he was able to share about himself, his work, the work of others in an hour and a half - and give us an exercise that we could duplicate again and again on our own. This book of poetry, his most recent I believe is humane and warm, lilting, a feel of Ontario rural upbringing, and keen, cool observation. He is a high school English teacher - lucky students.
January 23, 2022
The wind in the white birches
moves across the valley's floor,
the farms, the fields, the orchards
where fruit pickers long gone
work each new harvest season
singing laments and drinking
rum in the cool evenings
of cheap roadside motel rooms.
It rushes past the villages
and townships, the stone fences,
the barbed wire, as if looking
for its name etched, chiseled
among white cemeteries
with historical bronze plaques
beside gas stations for sale,
or underneath small bridges
in the storyless silence
of creeks and rivers flowing
through generations of lives
built along their muddy banks.
Wending through every shape
- ravines, gorges, and forests -
it moves deeply inside even us,
wanting to lie in our bodies,
and not keep moving, looking
always for a place to rest.
* * *
You begin to practice holding your breath.
Without effort, or air, you pass a minute
surprised your lungs do not beg for release.
A minute and a half passes, and you
slowly feel a bubble of trapped pressure
build and pull itself through the chest's walls.
A deep sea bulwark collapsing. But still
you meditate on a great nothingness
and the panic ceases. The minutes pass.
You wonder how it is that you are alive.
You walk through the city. People stare through you.
You touch a homeless man's shoulder. He gives
nothing away. Only yawns. Blinks twice. Then stares,
blankly. One of you is not there.
* * *
1
Late yesterday,
the wind began
dusting the yard
for fingerprints.
It could not find
my little daughter
anywhere. The cat
sat in the window
chattering, clawing
at a fat sparrow.
St. Benedict was
said to have seen
the soul of his sister
rise up to heaven
as a dove. The bird
from yesterday
perched on our
neighbour's fence
and sand heartily
"Don't forget me!"
yet was no one
I remember.
2
Our bird friend is back.
Its medley of notes
is an occasional song
our cat Zen loves.
He wants nothing
more than to pluck out
the bright red apple
of its ruby heart.
3
What are you afraid of
walking along the river
this early morning? Fog
rolling over its surface
like a wispy smoke. Sun
making its arid light
for your passage here.
Nothing. I'm afraid
of nothing, the river
says, one apple tree,
a confetti of blossoms,
tiny boats in its stream.
* * *
We talked the whole night
about a poetry of longing.
How it dogs us at our heels
creating order from chaos,
leaving us all vulnerable
to move among mysteries
but penniless, long suffering,
unable to return the gift,
if that is what is it, after it takes
from us its pound of flesh,
places it upon a polished scale
and measures our labour
against the baffled silences
of the dead who learned
long ago to stay quiet.
moves across the valley's floor,
the farms, the fields, the orchards
where fruit pickers long gone
work each new harvest season
singing laments and drinking
rum in the cool evenings
of cheap roadside motel rooms.
It rushes past the villages
and townships, the stone fences,
the barbed wire, as if looking
for its name etched, chiseled
among white cemeteries
with historical bronze plaques
beside gas stations for sale,
or underneath small bridges
in the storyless silence
of creeks and rivers flowing
through generations of lives
built along their muddy banks.
Wending through every shape
- ravines, gorges, and forests -
it moves deeply inside even us,
wanting to lie in our bodies,
and not keep moving, looking
always for a place to rest.
- Exodus, pg. 13
* * *
You begin to practice holding your breath.
Without effort, or air, you pass a minute
surprised your lungs do not beg for release.
A minute and a half passes, and you
slowly feel a bubble of trapped pressure
build and pull itself through the chest's walls.
A deep sea bulwark collapsing. But still
you meditate on a great nothingness
and the panic ceases. The minutes pass.
You wonder how it is that you are alive.
You walk through the city. People stare through you.
You touch a homeless man's shoulder. He gives
nothing away. Only yawns. Blinks twice. Then stares,
blankly. One of you is not there.
- Ghosts, pg. 22
* * *
1
Late yesterday,
the wind began
dusting the yard
for fingerprints.
It could not find
my little daughter
anywhere. The cat
sat in the window
chattering, clawing
at a fat sparrow.
St. Benedict was
said to have seen
the soul of his sister
rise up to heaven
as a dove. The bird
from yesterday
perched on our
neighbour's fence
and sand heartily
"Don't forget me!"
yet was no one
I remember.
2
Our bird friend is back.
Its medley of notes
is an occasional song
our cat Zen loves.
He wants nothing
more than to pluck out
the bright red apple
of its ruby heart.
3
What are you afraid of
walking along the river
this early morning? Fog
rolling over its surface
like a wispy smoke. Sun
making its arid light
for your passage here.
Nothing. I'm afraid
of nothing, the river
says, one apple tree,
a confetti of blossoms,
tiny boats in its stream.
- Waiting, pg. 39-41
* * *
We talked the whole night
about a poetry of longing.
How it dogs us at our heels
creating order from chaos,
leaving us all vulnerable
to move among mysteries
but penniless, long suffering,
unable to return the gift,
if that is what is it, after it takes
from us its pound of flesh,
places it upon a polished scale
and measures our labour
against the baffled silences
of the dead who learned
long ago to stay quiet.
- My Friends, pg. 60
June 19, 2012
Banks' best book so far. I felt it could've ended more strongly (perhaps it could've used a few more poems) but overall it's one of the best books of poetry I've read the past couple years.
April 2, 2017
3,5 really.
If you have lived, or know someone who lives in a rural part of a town or city, it captures both the bitter and the sweet of the experience.
Many poems left me longing to go to my mother's house.
If you have lived, or know someone who lives in a rural part of a town or city, it captures both the bitter and the sweet of the experience.
Many poems left me longing to go to my mother's house.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews